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sadman-morgan · 4 years

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rainy night muse

pairing: arthur morgan x neutral!reader

summary: Heavy rain slammed against the tent’s folds as thunder roared throughout camp. This night felt longer than any other. You were exhausted. You just wanted to get some sleep.

word count: 1.7k

warnings: none, other than extreme fluff with one cowboy.

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You and Arthur had spent the day hunting, gathering supplies and various items requested by fellow camp members, all while committing petty crimes along the way. Hunting always made you incredibly sore to the point where other members had taken notice. Ms. Grimshaw always assured there were other ways for you to earn your keep, but you brushed the offers off. Despite the aching, hunting was always your favorite pastime to share with Arthur.

After rounding up your hunts, you and Arthur decided to head back to camp. When you both approached your horse, Arthur saddled up first, then reached out his arm for you to hop on. On the way back, nightfall slowly began to creep into The Heartlands. Arthur had spent any free-breathing second scribbling away in his journal, which soon became the quickly discussed topic on the ride back.

“What’d ya draw today?” you questioned.

Despite not seeing his face, you could feel tints of red smearing across his face, and the heat coming off of it.

“Uhh.. scenery? Not real sure, jus’ random things I saw beauty in, I suppose,” he laughed nervously.

You were both usually quiet after strenuous days like today. Occasionally, you mumble-sang random songs together or pointed out breathtaking views. There was always something about talking to you that made Arthur’s heart skip beats, and his palms drown in his own sweat. Speaking his true mind was always a difficult task.

Once you arrived at camp, the day turned into a deep pitch black, only to be combated by the bright illumination of the campfire. Arthur hopped off first to hitch the horse, then came back around to help you off.

You both went around saying your hellos to those still awake, and gave your hunted animals over to Pearson.

After handing over the hunted animals, you and Arthur went back to your tent to drop a couple of things off, and to turn in for the night.

You sat down on your shared cot and quietly watched Arthur rustle through his satchel before finally placing it down on the table.

Before coming over to sit down, Arthur mumbled, “Shit -- I’ll be right back, just forgot to do somethin’.”

“Y’alright?” you questioned him.

“Yeah. Just forgot to.. to give everyone their things. I hope they’re still awake. Shouldn’t be too much trouble, I’ll be back in a minute,” Arthur said as he shuffled through his satchel, picking out the few items that camp members had requested.

After Arthur left, you dug through his satchel, took out his journal, and began to flip through his beautiful paragraphs and illustrations.

Arthur knew you read his paragraphs and looked at his drawings. It was mostly because of how you spoke about different things, and how you would try to compliment him on his art, which was never received well. He was self-conscious about his art and writing being seen by anybody else; it initially was for his eyes only. As time went on, he grew less worried about your reading, as long as it was only you seeing his work. He never believed you when you tried to compliment him on his art, and would sometimes grow defensive if he thought you were kidding. You would never do such a thing, but he suspected otherwise.

Flipping through the pages, you finally found his writing and drawings from that day. On one side of the page, he wrote a small blurb about enjoying hunting with you, and how beautiful the scenery was. You laughed a little bit, before flipping the page to see his daily drawing.

Tears immediately filled your eyes and trickled down your face. You glided your fingers across the page. His daily drawing was a beautiful portrait of you, "Muse" scrawled hastily underneath. You closed the journal and slipped it back into his satchel.

You sat down on your cot and continued to happily cry with the cheesiest smile smeared across your face. You meant the world to Arthur, but he always struggled to outright say so. You raised your head to Arthur’s return, still teary-eyed.

“I’m back, y’alright?” he questioned. He seemed mildly puzzled.

“Yeah~ I’m alright. Nothin’ to worry about,” you responded.

But Arthur knew exactly what to worry about.

Arthur felt his heart begin to race out of embarrassment. He felt loved, but he also felt his usual sense of guilt. He didn’t believe that he deserved to be loved by such a beautiful person like you. After Mary had left, he grew afraid of history repeating itself.

Arthur didn’t know what to say or do other than nod his head, and mumble, “Thanks.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes, so you gazed off into the void behind him.

“Don’t mention it, Morgan.”

Once you stood up, Arthur pulled you tightly into his arms. While nearly suffocating, you were welcomed by the soft aromas of pine and whiskey, mixed in with sweat. You felt at home.

Arthur loosened his hold on you with one arm and used the other to gently ruffle your hair.

“I care about you, Darlin’... so, so much,” Arthur mumbled into your ear.

Arthur could feel you smiling deep into his chest. He pulled you away so he could gaze into your gorgeous eyes.

“You’re my world, Y/N,” Arthur said as he carefully dragged his thumb across your face, wiping away the remainder of your tears. “You’ve turned me into a goddamned fool”.

You pulled him back in and kissed his cheek, his stubble scraping against your skin. You felt a sudden temperature change in his face.

You carefully pulled away while tracing his jawline, only to have him tug you back in and give you a quick smooch on the lips.

“You’re so handsome,” you said.

He gave you a puzzled look and chuckled. “Maybe it’s time to visit the eye doctor then?”

You playfully shook your head. “Don’t think so, cowboy”.

Your mutual flirtations were interrupted by bellowing thunder and heavy rain, and nearly every camp member rising to their feet.

“Sonuvabitch,” Arthur sighed. “Let’s go help out.”

Everyone rushed to get their belongings out of the rain and load them back into the proper wagons. Thank God there wasn’t much to move around. You and Arthur were both completely drenched in no time, but kept on loading the wagons.

“Everyone alright?” Arthur called out.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan," "Yes, Arthur,” various voices across camp responded.

“Alright, Just a bit of thunder and rain, nothin’ to worry about. Let’s try to get some rest.”

As everyone went back to sleep, you and Arthur headed back to your wagon and tent.

You looked and felt like shit, and so did Arthur. You were both overworked, exhausted, and soaking wet from the rain -- not to mention the deep aching pain throughout your neck, back, and shoulders.

Arthur walked over to the small area where you both kept your pajamas and took them out.

“Here ya go,” he said in a deep, exhausted tone.

“Thanks,” you responded.

As you took your pajamas from Arthur, you gave him a small head notion for him to put his eyes elsewhere, or to turn around.

“Alright,” he said as he turned around and covered his eyes. “I won’t look at ya.”

“Thanks,” you said as you finished getting dressed, pulling your shirt over your head. “‘Free to turn around now.”

After you returned the favor, you both crawled into your shared cot. The rain continued to pour hard against your tent.

You snuggled close into Arthur and carefully sprawled your hand across his chest, before putting your head down.

His soft breathing and heartbeat were more comforting and relaxing than he could ever understand. Arthur raised his hand and gently played with your hair, which always sent tingles down your spine.

You could’ve passed out immediately on his chest, but the harsh rain had decided otherwise. You hated it when it poured. Arthur never understood your hatred for the rain, as it always immediately lulled him to sleep. On stormy nights, he would battle the pull of gravity on his eyelids so he could lull you to sleep first. It seemed like this night would be the same.

“Y’did good today, I’m so… so proud of you.” Arthur mumbled into your ear.

His voice had dropped a ton in comparison to when he last spoke. His voice was naturally deep and raspy, but when that man grew tired, his voice sure could tell. He spoke so much slower, deeper, and raspier the more exhausted he was, and God did you find it to be one of the sexiest things about him.

You gently kissed his neck before rolling off his chest and onto your back.

You tried so hard to stay still and quiet, but you mindlessly tossed and turned. Sometimes you would move so much, you would accidentally kick Arthur.

What felt like two hours passed, and you were still wide awake, kept conscious by the relentless aches in your muscles.

Arthur hadn’t slept. Your constant movement, kicking, and whimpers had kept him awake.

“Wh… What’chu whimpering for? Is something wrong, Darlin'?” Arthur slowly said, barely conscious.

“My back and shoulders… they… they hurt so badly, Arthur,” you whined.

You sounded like you were about to cry. You just wanted to get some goddamn sleep.

Arthur laid still for a moment. “I… I have an idea, can you roll over on your stomach for me?” He muttered as he carefully nudged you onto your side, and then onto your stomach.

Arthur motioned behind you and grazed his hand across your shoulder, “I’m gonna rub your shoulders and back for you, is that alright?” he asked. Once you nodded, he applied a bit more pressure, which caused you to wince.

“God damn.... knotted up to high heaven,” he murmured as he began to gently massage your back and shoulders. You whimpered and groaned when Arthur found a sore or sensitive spot, but he could feel you begin to relax underneath him, telling him that his hard work was greatly appreciated. Arthur gradually slowed down for a minute to admire you. He smiled softly as he watched the rise and fall of your shoulders as you began to nod off.

Only ten minutes after he started, you had fallen completely asleep.

“Goodnight, Muse,” he mumbled as he ran his hand across your shoulders.

After a job well done, Arthur slid off of your back, rolled onto his, and quickly dozed off.

He loved to sleep to the ear-pleasing harmonies of the pouring rain, but only if you were taken care of first.

---

an: first fic for this fandom, I hope you guys like it! I’m always open to writing suggestions, feel free to leave some in my inbox.

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algernoninwonderland · 3 years

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Miraculous, intertextuality and why referencing other works all the time isn’t necessarily a great idea

TL;DR: Miraculous loves itself some pop culture references, they’re in the show all the time for you to enjoy, especially if you’re a big nerd.

Only, making a list of references and trying to replicate what other works did before yours doesn’t make your show good by association, and when it comes to Miraculous, these references seldom do these original works justice. Instead, it makes comparing these other works with Miraculous really easy, and the comparison is rarely flattering.

Miraculous would be a much better show if it tried to be its own thing, a few scenes are just that and they are great. It’d be a wonderful show were they not so few and far between.

Miraculous is made by nerds, as is the case with most cartoons. The show itself lets you know that right away. It’s a pastiche of magical girl anime and Silver Age comics, it uses a lot of their visual languages, and references its other inspirations a lot, for instance:

The name of its fictional locations, (Françoise Dupont is a regular kid with a masked detective alter ego named Fantomette, Marinette’s address is a reference to a French illustrator who often drew a talking ladybird)

The way its characters look (Master Fu is both Mr Miyagi from the Karate Kid and Muten Roshi from Dragon Ball, when akumatised, Mme Couffaine becomes basically Captain Harlock and her houseboat becomes the Arcadia)

Sometimes entire scenes are references to other works (Aurore’s akumatisation is straight out of Utena’s Dark Rose Saga, “Gorizilla” has a King Kong pastiche).

You could fill an entire Wiki with all the references in Miraculous if you wanted to. If you paid me well, I’d do it myself.

Wearing your inspirations on your sleeves is a double-edged sword, really.

On the one hand, you showcase the things that inspired your creative process, a way to say, “hey, that show/film/book exists within a landscape, it’s the heir to such and such work”. You acknowledge that you owe a lot to your predecessors, you acknowledge that there’s no such thing as a 100% original thing. That’s a great act of humility.

And intertextuality conveys meaning, too! Let’s take a very mainstream example. When you notice that ha! The pod-racing scene in Phantom Menace comes from the 1959 movie Ben-Hur for instance, you get the sense that you understand the cinematic masterpiece that is Episode 1 a bit more. It tells you that your movie about space wizards owes a lot to other genres, and that it transposes these genres to another setting, space! “It’s Ben-Hur, in that that slave kid is pod-racing for his freedom, but I gave it my own spin,” George Lucas tells you. “Look, the funny Gungan stepped into that space cow’s poop! Haha, sure hope I’ll sell lots of toys and buy myself some death sticks!”

You feel really smart when you get a reference, too! “Hey, that’s a Dezaki effect right there!” “Wow, is that a robot from Castle in the Sky in Age of Ultron?” Likewise, if you don’t recognise the work being referred to, you might get curious about it! References send back to other things and your knowledge of these things and when you get it, it feels nice. Lots of people discovered Utena thanks to Steven Universe and that’s really cool, and these references add to the meaning of the cartoon! Folks who casually got into RWBY but didn’t know Soul Eater and Cowboy Bebop heard about those shows and many others while discussing RWBY and I’m sure lots of them got into anime thanks to RWBY!

On the other hand, by being so open about your sources of inspiration, you expose yourself to criticism, especially in the case of your work being compared with what inspired it: it might be seen as derivative, or even worse, unable to do these previous pieces of media justice by only retaining and replicating their most superficial elements without a great understanding of what made them work, gratuitous fanservice for nerds.

And I’m not quite sure where Miraculous stands. Oftentimes, it feels more like a Spider-Man/Kamen Rider crossover with bits of outdated shoujo manga and superficial wuxia sprinkled in there than a show at least trying to be its own thing.

And the problem is, Sailor Moon is better at being Sailor Moon than Miraculous could ever be, as it uses its visual language better, and it has a tiny thing called “the main character having a group of friends who aren’t props and a plot you can follow” that is the very reason why people liked the manga and anime in the first place. Miraculous only retains the very superficial aspects of the manga/anime and of the genre. Marinette still trips over a cat in the opening. Because that’s how it happens in Sailor Moon. Her characterisation as a civilian screams “Usagi Tsukino but more stressed out”.

Spider-Man is better at splash pages than Miraculous because ML’s CGI is pretty meh when it’s not in motion, these weird filter effects don’t look great, that only works when you’re Into the Spiderverse and have comic-book aesthetics. Queen Wasp has a whole sequence that is just that scene in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 2 only this time Queen Bee sabotaged a metro on purpose to stop it. It’s not an awful scene, it carries its point across rather well (Chloé is a selfish nerd who thinks she can be like these comic book characters but truly isn’t fit to be a hero) but the original did it better, it was more impressive, there was more tension to that original scene, some really interesting camera and foley work that made you feel the weight of that train. It didn’t feel cheap the way that scene in “Queen Wasp” did.

Utena’s Black Rose Saga explores the psyche of some of its secondary characters the audience is already familiar with, with problems we could already identify within them. It offers an examination of the storyworld from another point of view, and helps build it further. There’s always a proper buildup before these characters have a mental breakdown in an moody elevator with a butterfly pinned on the wall that turns back into a chrysalis, because the characters are going through a kind of regression that makes them easier to manipulate and turn into “villains” while acting out their true desires in a twisted way. “Stormy Weather” has most of that, an elevator with dramatic lighting, a butterfly and a mental breakdown, but the character is all new to us so it’s just not that impactful. Often, that one secondary character who’ll get transformed has had spoken lines, yes, but that’s only minutes before they get akumatised.

“Kinda the same but a bit worse and missing some of the key aspects of what made the original thing so good” isn’t much of a tribute, is it?

In an earlier post, I stated that Animaestro was basically “I have watched a lot of animated shows and I know how to mimic them, the episode”. It told us nothing about animation as a medium except that it’s cool sometimes and that you get to imitate other people who are much better at the things they do than you are.

It’s not a clever metacommentary, it’s just “me likey moving pictures”. Good for you, I guess… Did you really need an entire episode to make that point?

And then you’ve got all the bad outdated shoujo tropes with characters falling on top of each other, aggressive flirting (harassment, really) from Adrien portrayed as really sweet and romantic because it’s just like in the shoujo manga (which one?) you see… And that’s just not great, is it?

Miraculous is a much better cartoon when it doesn’t try (and fail) to emulate other shows and movies and comic books and manga. The only thing it tells us about these works is that That Guy and co really like them and that copy-pasting them is the best way they’ve found to show their love. Imitation and flattery and all of that I guess.

“Look, it’s like in that scene in the anime! Did you like the anime? It sure was a good anime, and if our show makes you think about it, then it’s also good, right?”

No, you guys, I’m sorry but no. If making references was all it took to be good, then gaming webcomics would be regarded as masterpieces.

Very often, the show seems interested in being anything but itself. And it’s a shame, because there are lots of ideas the show kind of brings up but never quite touches. Marinette is interested in fashion design? That’s great, show us more of that! Make it an important part of her character, and by the same occasion, make her creations look not-laughable. Miraculous could be the first cartoon to explore what it’s like to be a biracial kid with a Chinese parent in France (would that work with a crew of almost strictly middle-aged white men is another question to which the answer is a resounding “no”). The show is set in Paris? Cool, how about exploring the city outside of its landmarks every tourist and their mom already knows?

Inexplicably, in the middle of an episode when you expect it the least, you get brilliant bits of directing that aren’t references to other works. Alya becoming Rena Rouge and her first steps as a superhero? Brilliant, really immersive, loved it, not a reference. The sad car scene in Puppeteer 2? It’s really really good, not a reference either. All the unexplored lore? It seemed really promising and having more of it would help us understand things a bit more!

People don’t just like your show because it reminds them of another show. Why watch it if you can watch that original work in the first place?

Trying to make a superficial mashup of all things you think are great in other works is not the way to do these works justice, nor is it the way to make your show interesting, let alone good.

#miraculous #ml salt #ml writers salt #ml critical #ml analysis #longpost #rwby #star wars #spider-man #adrien salt

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wildeoaths · 4 years

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LGBTQ Book & Film Recommendations

Hello! As someone who tries to read widely, it can sometimes be frustrating to find good (well-written, well-made) LGBTQ+ works of literature and film, and mainstream recommendations only go so far. This is my shortlist.

Some caveats: 1) I have only watched/seen some of these, though they have all been well-received.

2) The literature list is primarily focused on adult literary and genre fiction, since that is what I mostly read, and I feel like it’s easier to find queer YA fiction. Cece over at ProblemsOfABookNerd (YT) covers a lot of newer releases and has a YA focus, so you can check her out for more recommendations.

3) There are a ton of good films and good books that either reference or discuss queer theory, LGBTQ history and literary theory. These tend to be more esoteric and academic, and I’m not too familiar with queer theory, so they’ve largely been left off the list. I do agree that they’re important, and reading into LGBTQ-coding is a major practice, but they’re less accessible and I don’t want to make the list too intimidating.

4) I linked to Goodreads and Letterboxd because that’s what I use and I happen to really enjoy the reviews.

Any works that are bolded are popular, or they’re acclaimed and I think they deserve some attention. I’ve done my best to flag potential objections and triggers, but you should definitely do a search of the reviews. DoesTheDogDie is also a good resource. Not all of these will be suitable for younger teenagers; please use your common sense and judgement.

Please feel free to chime in in the replies (not the reblogs) with your recommendations, and I’ll eventually do a reblog with the additions!

BOOKS

> YOUNG ADULT

Don’t @ me asking why your favourite YA novel isn’t on this list. These just happen to be the picks I felt might also appeal to older teens/twentysomethings.

Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo - poetry.

Felix Ever After by Kacen Callender - trans male teen protagonist.

Red, White & Royal Blue

Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda

The Gentleman’s Guide To Vice And Virtue

The Raven Boys (and Raven Cycle)

> LITERATURE: GENERAL

This list does skew M/M; more NB, trans and WLW recommendations are welcomed!

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara. One of the most acclaimed contemporary LGBTQ novels and you’ve probably heard of it. Will probably make you cry.

A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood. Portrait of a middle-aged gay man.

Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. M/M affair, British student high society; definitely nostalgic for the aristocracy so be aware of the context.

Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman. It’s somewhat controversial, it’s gay, everyone knows the film at least.

Cronus’ Children / Le Jardin d'Acclimation by Yves Navarre. Winner of the Goncourt prize.

Dancer From The Dance by Andrew Holleran. A young man in the 1970s NYC gay scene. Warning for drugs and sexual references.

Dorian, An Imitation by Will Self. Adaptation of Orscar Wilde’s novel. Warning for sexual content.

Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg. Two wlw in the 1980s. Also made into a film; see below.

Gemini by Michel Tournier. The link will tell you more; seems like a very complex read. TW for troubling twin dynamics.

Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. Another iconic M/M work.

Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey. A queer punk reimagining of Peter Pan. Probably one of the more accessible works on this list!

Lie With Me by Philippe Besson. Two teenage boys in 1980s France.

Maurice by E. M. Forster. Landmark work written in 1914. Also made into a film; see below.

Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. An expansive (and long) novel about the story of Cal, a hermaphrodite, by the author of The Virgin Suicides.

Orlando by Virginia Woolf. Plays with gender, time and space. Virginia Woolf’s ode to her lover Vita Sackville-West. What more do you want? (also a great film; see below).

Oscar Wilde’s works - The Picture of Dorian Gray would be the place to start. Another member of the classical literary canon.

Saga, vol.1 by Brian K. Vaughn and Fiona Staples. Graphic novel; warning for sexual content.

Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinburg. An acclaimed work looking at working-class lesbian life and gender identity in pre-Stonewall America.

The Holy Innocents by Gilbert Adair. The basis for Bertolucci’s The Dreamers (2003). I am hesitant to recommend this because I have not read this, though I have watched the film; the M/M dynamic and LGBTQ themes do not seem to be the primary focus. Warning for sexual content and incestuous dynamics between the twins.

The Animals At Lockwood Manor by Jane Healey. Plays with gothic elements, set during WW2, F/F elements.

The Hours by Michael Cunningham. References Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway. Probably a good idea to read Virginia Woolf first.

The Immoralist by André Gide. Translated from French.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline MIller. Drawing from the Iliad, focusing on Achilles and Patroclus. Contemporary fantasy that would be a good pick for younger readers.

The Swimming Pool Library by Alan Hollinghurst. Gay life pre-AIDS crisis. Apparently contains a fair amount of sexual content.

What Belongs To You by Garth Greenwell. A gay man’s coming of age in the American South.

> LITERATURE: WORLD LITERATURE

American and Western experiences are more prominent in LGBTQ works, just due to the way history and the community have developed, and the difficulties of translation. These are English and translated works that specifically foreground the experiences of non-White people living in (often) non-Western societies. I’m not white or American myself and recommendations in this area are especially welcomed.

All Boys Aren’t Blue by George M. Johnson. The memoirs and essays of a queer black activist, exploring themes of black LGBTQ experiences and masculinity.

A People’s History of Heaven by Mathangi Subramanian. Female communities and queer female characters in a Bangalore slum. A very new release but already very well received.

Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima. Coming-of-age in post-WW1 Japan. This one’s interesting, because it’s definitely at least somewhat autobiographical. Mishima can be a tough writer, and you should definitely look into his personality and his life when reading his work.

Disoriental by Négar Djavadi. A family saga told against the backdrop of Iranian history by a queer Iranian woman. Would recommend going into this knowing at least some of the political and historical context.

How We Fight For Our Lives by Saeed Jones. A coming-of-age story and memoir from a gay, black man in the American South.

In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado. Another acclaimed contemporary work about the dynamics of abuse in LGBTQ relationships. Memoir.

Girl, Woman, Other by Bernardine Evaristo. Contemporary black British experience, told from the perspectives of 12 diverse narrators.

> POETRY

Crush by Richard Siken. Tumblr loves Richard Siken, worth a read.

Diving Into The Wreck by Adrienne Rich.

He’s So Masc by Chris Tse.

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, trans. Anne Carson. The best presentation of Sappho we’re likely to get.

Lord Byron’s works - Selected Poems may be a good starting point. One of the Romantics and part of the classical literary canon.

Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire. The explicitly lesbian poems are apparently in the les fleurs du mal section.

> MEMOIR & NONFICTION

And The Band Played On: Politics, People and the AIDS Epidemic by Randy Shilts. An expansive, comprehensive history and exposure of the failures of media and the Reagan administration, written by an investigative journalist. Will probably make you rightfully angry.

How to Survive A Plague: The Inside Story of How Citizens and Science Tamed AIDS by David France. A reminder of the power of community and everyday activism, written by a gay reporter living in NYC during the epidemic.

Indecent Advances: The Hidden History of Murder and Masculinity Before Stonewall by James Polchin. True crime fans, this one’s for you. Sociocultural history constructed from readings of the news and media.

Queer: A Graphic History by Meg-John Barker. It’s illustrated, it’s written by an academic, it’s an easier introduction to queer theory. I still need to pick up a copy, but it seems like a great jumping-off point with an overview of the academic context.

Real Queer America by Samantha Allen. The stories of LGBTQ people and LGBTQ narratives in the conservative parts of America. A very well received contemporary read.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson. Gender, pregnancy and queer partnership. I’m not familiar with this but it is quite popular.

When Brooklyn Was Queer by Hugh Ryan. LGBTQ history of Brooklyn from the nineteenth century to pre-Stonewall.

FILMS

With films it’s difficult because characters are often queercoded and we’re only now seeing films with better rep. This is a shortlist of better-rated films with fairly explicit LGBTQ coding, LGBTQ characters, or made by LGBTQ persons. Bolded films are ones that I think are likely to be more accessible or with wider appeal.

A Single Man (2009) - Colin Firth plays a middle-aged widower.

Blue Is The Warmest Colour (2013) - A controversial one. Sexual content.

Booksmart (2019) - A pretty well made film about female friendship and being an LGBTQ teen.

Boy Erased (2018) - Warning for conversion therapy.

BPM (Beats Per Minute) (2017) - Young AIDS activists in France.

Brokeback Mountain (2005) - Cowboy gays. This film is pretty famous, do you need more summary? Might make a good triple bill with Idaho and God’s Own Country.

Cabaret (1972) - Liza Minelli. Obvious plug to also look into Vincent Minelli.

Calamity Jane (1953) - There’s a lot that could be said about queer coding in Hollywood golden era studio films, but this is apparently a fun wlw-cowboy westerns-vibes watch. Read the reviews on this one!

Call Me By Your Name (2017) - Please don't debate this film in the notes.

Caravaggio (1986) - Sean Bean and Tilda Swinton are in it. Rather explicit.

Carol (2015) - Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara are lesbians in 1950s America.

Clouds of Sils Maria (2014) - Hard to summarise, but one review calls it “lesbian birdman” and it has both Juliette Binoche and Kristen Stewart in it, so consider watching it.

Colette (2018) - About the bi/queer female writer Colette during the belle epoque era. This had Keira Knightley so by all rights Tumblr should love it.

Fried Green Tomatoes (1991) - Lesbian love in 1920s/80s? America.

God’s Own Country (2017) - Gay and British.

Happy Together (1997) - By Wong Kar Wai. No further explanation needed.

Heartbeats (2010) - Bi comedy.

Heartstone (2016) - It’s a story about rural Icelandic teenagers.

Henry Gamble’s Birthday Party (2015) - Queer teens and religious themes.

Je, Tu, Il, Elle (1974) - Early Chantal Akerman. Warning for sexual scenes.

Kill Your Darlings (2013) - Ginsberg, Kerouac and the Beat poets.

Love, Simon (2018)

Lovesong (2016) - Lesbian and very soft. Korean-American characters.

Love Songs (2007) - French trio relationship. Louis Garrel continues to give off non-straight vibes.

Mädchen In Uniform (1931) - One of the earliest narrative films to explicitly portray homosexuality. A piece of LGBTQ cinematic history.

Maurice (1987) - Adaptation of the novel.

Midnight Cowboy (1969) - Heavy gay coding.

Milk (2008) - Biopic of Harvey Milk, openly gay politician. By the same director who made My Own Private Idaho.

Moonlight (2016) - It won the awards for a reason.

My Own Private Idaho (1991) - Another iconic LGBTQ film. River Phoenix.

Mysterious Skin (2004) - Go into this film aware, please. Young actors, themes of prostitution, child ab*se, r***, and a lot of trauma.

Orlando (1992) - An excellent adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s novel, and in my opinion far more accessible. Watch it for the queer sensibilities and fantastic period pieces.

Pariah (2011) - Excellent coming-of-age film about a black lesbian girl in Brooklyn.

Paris is Burning (1990) - LANDMARK DOCUMENTARY piece of LGBTQ history, documenting the African-American and Latine drag and ballroom roots of the NYC queer community.

Persona (1966) - It’s an Ingmar Bergman film so I would recommend knowing what you’re about to get into, but also I can’t describe it because it’s an Ingmar Bergman film.

Picnic At Hanging Rock (1975) - Cult classic queercoded boarding school girls.

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019) - By Celine Sciamma, who’s rapidly establishing herself in the mainstream as a LGBTQ film director. This is a wlw relationship and the queer themes are reflected in the cinematic techniques used. A crowd pleaser.

Pride (2014) - Pride parades with a British sensibility.

Rebel Without A Cause (1955) - Crowd-pleaser with bi coding and James Dean. The OG version of “you’re tearing me apart!”.

Rocketman (2019) - It’s Elton John.

Rent (2005) - Adaptation of the stage musical. Not the best film from a technical standpoint. I recommend the professionally recorded 2008 closing night performance instead.

Rope (1948) - Hitchcock film.

Sorry Angel (2018) - Loving portraits of gay French men.

Talk To Her (2002) - By Spanish auteur Pedro Almodóvar.

Tangerine (2015) - About trans sex workers. The actors apparently had a lot of input in the film, which was somehow shot on an iPhone by the same guy who went on to do The Florida Project.

The Duke of Burgundy (2014) - Lesbians in an S&M relationship that’s going stale, sexual content obviously.

The Gay Deceivers (1969) - The reviews are better than me explaining.

The Handmaiden (2016) - Park Chan-wook makes a film about Korean lesbians and is criminally snubbed at the Oscars. Warning for sexual themes and kink.

The Favourite (2018) - Period movie, and lesbian.

Thelma And Louise (1991) - An iconic part of LGBTQ cinematic history. That is all.

The Celluloid Closet (1995) - A look into LGBTQ cinematic history, and the historical contexts we operated in when we’ve snuck our narratives into film.

The Miseducation of Cameron Post (2018) - Adaptation of the YA novel.

The Neon Demon (2016) - Apparently based on Elizabeth Bathory, the blood-drinking countess. Very polarising film and rated R.

The Perks of Being A Wallflower (2012) - Book adaptation. It has Ezra Miller in it I guess.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) - No explanation needed, queer and transgressive vibes all the way.

They (2017) - Gender identity, teenagers.

Those People (2015) - They’re gay and they’re artists in New York.

Tomboy (2011) - One of the few films I’ve seen dealing with gender identity in children (10 y/o). Celine Sciamma developing her directorial voice.

Tropical Malady (2004) - By Thai auteur Apichatpong Weerasethakul. His is a very particular style so don’t sweat it if you don’t enjoy it.

Vita and Virginia (2018) - Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West biopic

Water Lilies (2007) - Celine Sciamma again! Teenage lesbian coming-of-age.

When Marnie Was There (2014) - A Studio Ghibli film exploring youth, gender and sexuality.

Weekend (2011) - An indie film about young gay love.

Wilde (1997) - It’s a film about Oscar Wilde.

XXY (2007) - About an intersex teenager. Reviews on this are mixed.

Y Tu Mama Tambien (2001) - Wonder what Diego Luna was doing before Rogue One? This is one of the things. Warning for sexual content.

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cowboyshit · 4 years

Text

@adampage tumblr did a dumbass thing and messed up the read-more to where I couldn’t put it under one so I had to delete your ask and I’m making a separate post for this disaster of a ramble hoooo boy i hope you’re ready for what you’ve unleashed

adampage asked: ma’am I know you’re high off your rocker but if you have time would you please critique hangman’s playlist for me bc I want to know your thoughts 🥰 anyway yeehaw

OH MY GOD yes???? yes I fucking WILL?????? let’s just pump the breaks on what i was doing right the fuck now, get his playlist in front of me (even though ive been listening to it nonstop and have so many things to ALREADY SAY) and talk about this shit. im sorry if this isn’t coherent im pry just gonna ramble. (edit to add now that I’m done: ITS FREAKING 3252 WORDS LONG LMAO OH MY GOD)

first and foremost. I Love It. let’s just slap that down. get that out of the way. ITS SO GOOD. SO FUCKING GOOD. also this is going under a readmore cause YEAH. it’s THAT LONG.

let’s start first with mr. adam ‘i taught graphic design when i was 20 and learned adobe illustrator and photoshop to design my own tshirts when i was an indie wrestler’ page’s cover image. wait. no. back up - look at the profile image he chose for his profile. it’s not a selfie. it’s not a picture he snapped with his camera. it’s a screenshot of the “has been drinking” moment on aew dynamite. what a lovable FOOL. he really saved that and put that as his profile pic im skjdfkjfd okay now swing back to the anxious millenial design with the signed hangman adam page for the cover. he designed that. I swear he did. I swear he did that. I could be wrong but I just feel it in my bones. that was him. also, THAT should have been the vintage shirt. cowboy shit is cute but ANXIOUS MILLENNIAL COWBOY? I NEED THAT AS THE SHIRT!

okay now let’s get into the songs. wait. before i go through it I do want to say something about the playlist overall.

I can’t decide if this is because he shares so many similarities to the character hangman adam page, but so many of these songs apply to his character like, this fucking playlist plays like a hangman adam page THE CHARACTER playlist. like this is the playlist i’d find on 8tracks back when that was the “thing” in fandom where every song makes me go “OMG THAT IS THAT CHARACTER” like. I don’t know if he did that purposefully as an extension of the character? or if it just happens to line up because of how similar he is and his story is to his character but SOME of these songs wooooo boy they get deep dont they? when you compare them to the character?

okay. songs.

so I know some of these, especially the classics, summertime of course, but for the ones I didn’t know I love them so much. they have such a vibe that just fits him, and they’re all so good???

rather low by nick shoulders is one I didn’t know and I fucking LOVE it. and look. it goes from Long Time Gone by the Dixie Chicks. Long Time Gone about being away from the country life, from home and if my THEORY is right about this playlist hitting the character, hangman is struggling with being lost, without a family. it goes from that to rather low, which talks about not being welcome at home. like “I told you once I told you twice, I’m steeped in verse and cursed in vice” ajdskjds GOOD lyrics. beat slaps. song slaps. I love it.

okay so we go roll on mississippi which is soft compared to the two upbeat songs that just hit us before. calms you down after that high energy beat rather low had. lets you breathe. AND it’s got a sad, soft, longing pull to it, falling in with more of those “lost” from home themes. “You're the childhood dream that I grew up on. Roll on Mississippi, carry me home. Now I can see I've been away too long.” UGH! and also, it’s just a good fucking song.

then we go to a song i haven’t heard and love, going places by aubrie sellers. it’s a little bit funkier, but still soft. also groovy as FUCK. and it obv talks about GOING places. so maybe the first three songs were about the home he’s left behind, but now it’s about where he’s going. and man this song just SLAPS.

A CLASSIC is next, 1970 something illegal smile by john prine. it has that classic soft croon, such a good country sound and it’s a little bit playful. it makes you wanna smile and sway back and forth. it’s a good song. fun. but it’s almost a little bit. dark? “ Won't you please tell the man I didn't kill anyone. No, I'm just tryin' to have me some fun. Well, I sat down in my closet with all my overalls, tryin' to get away from all the ears inside my walls. I dreamed the police heard everything I thought, what then?” it just makes me think of when his character “killed” joey ryan. I could be looking too far into it but, that’s what popped into my head.

OKAY NOW this next one. fuck yeah I DIG this song. I hadn’t heard this song and it quickly went into my liked songs. and if we’re following his character, the lyrics hit HARD. “ I've lost the will to try this worthless lullaby. Its melody won't fly me past oblivion. I bet it would be nice to find that paradise, a world of sparkling light beyond the setting sun. But I don't dream anymore” ugh !!!!!!! UGGGHH!! SO GOOD?? and even the slight upbeat to it. “would if I could but I don’t dream anymore” uuuuggghhh SO GOOD. love this song. one of my faves of the whole list for sure.

the next two back-to-back are CLASSICS and fit the hangman adam page character so damn perfect. i’ve even looked at lyrics from merle haggard’s i don’t want to sober up to night for adam in the past akjfdkjdsf it’s fucking perfect. and then followed by dwight yoakam’s honky tonk man?! amazing. we go from from fucking heart-wrenching lyrics if you think about them for him: “ I don't want to sober up tonight. I don't want to act like things are alright, and I don't want to change just to make you think I'm happy. That's my right, I don't want to sober up tonight. I want to keep my mind a little hazy. I don't care if all my friends think I'm crazy. The way I treat myself I might be a little crazy But that's alright, I don't want to sober up tonight. I'm here to drown another day of misery. I'm in here to spend one night without a mem'ry and the way I'm drinking now there won't be any memory. But it's alright, I don't want to sober up tonight” to HONKY TONK MAN. HONKY. TONK. MAN. “ Well I'm a honky tonk man and I can't seem to stop. I love to give the girls a whirl to the music of an old jukebox, but when my money's all gone, I'm on the telephone singing, hey hey mama can your daddy come home?” ajhsdjksdjkf like. look. partying hangman, drunk, swinging a girl around in the country bar???? cause he refused to sober up and just wanted to have fun? anyways regardless if there’s a connection or if im reaching, these are some good classics to pull out right here. honky tonk man will ALWAYS bring the party back up.

another song I didn’t know but now love? happy reunion by colter wall? this is a good freaking cowboy song??? and it’s a cute story???? about what a cowboy does during his day??? what the fuck? riding along the range with his dog, helping the cow, getting the calf back that’d gotten lost???? CUTE? anyways this is a vibin as HELL song and if it’d come out when I was still raising cows my ass woulda been blasting this shit as I drove to feed the herd for SURE. this song is a whole ass vibe and I’m digging it.

okay. walk through fire by yola? another i didn’t know (which - so far it seems all the songs that arent classics - spare dixie chicks - are from 2019) and I am obsessed with???? it’s so good? and fuck just such a good love song??? “Standing on the side of the river. Staring across the great divide. I'd give all my gold and silver just to get to the other side. Your love is like a rescue vessel, carries me through the night through these flames of destruction. I know you're gonna make it right. I know, I know you're gonna save my life.“ LIKE? HENLO????????? FUCK!!!! THATS SO GOOD. that whole song I could post all the lyrics tbh. and the way she CROONS it ugh. yeah. I love that song.

FUCKIN YES. DOLLY FUCKIN PARTON. youre not gonna make a country playlist and not include a dolly parton song boy i KNOW IT. and the song choice??? hm? remind you of a CERTAIN COWBOYS STRUGGLE WITH NOT HAVING A HOME???? “What difference does it make which way I go, got an empty feelin' down inside. Still I need to stay alive and who can tell what waits beyond this road. I'm a drifter” ajdfshjsd god I love dolly. and of COURSE he does too. i’m so pleased by this choice I can’t stop smiling. ugh. love this. love dolly.

sandpaper oneside, rubber other by the bobby tenderloin universe what do you know? another 2019 song I didn’t know and yet absolutely LOVE. I also am loving how he does a mix of classics with newer (but still almost classic-country sounding, maybe like. classic meets modern) country music in this playlist. AND WHAT A SONG. it’s so good? and again, just makes me think of the character. “there are two minds inside me. that’s one life too many. but i keep moving slow on both sides, strong as I can be.” tell me that doesnt make you think of hangman adam page. and it has such a... sad vibe. “i cant believe the things i am. as much a lion as a lamb” !!!!!!!!!!! ugh such a GOOD LINE. THAT SLAPS. LOVE THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ugh this song. especially the back vocals of the woman that comes in later on? it’s like. ethereal. beautiful. fucking beautiful and almost haunting. paired with the sad lyrics? UGH. gorgeous.

long white line by sturgill simpson i do know and LOVE and it’s got a fun, uplifting cowboy beat following the more slow, sad croon of the last song. it’s SO COUNTRY. the way it’s sung? SO COUNTRY. and also ajdfskjsd adam. “I woke up my baby was gone without her I don't need no home” and “Gonna' push this rig 'til I push that girl out of my mind. If somebody wants to know what's become of this so and so tell em' I'm somewhere looking for the end of that long white line” kjdjkfdkjf this is just such a country song, and it fits SO well, especially after that previous pick.

now we go from two new songs to another classic. another (i think) 1970s country hit. lonesome, on’ry and mean is SUCH a classic country song. it has that good old sound, and the story it tells too. and just, I can’t stop thinking about hangman just “ Been driving these highways, been doing things my way. It's been making me lonesome on'ry and mean.” ajdskjflkf it’s fair to say that character IS lonesome, on’ry and mean right now. anyways, fun country song regardless and I DIG the addition.

okay back to a newer song and holy shit. this is my personal favorite of the new songs he introduced me to. this song I LOVE this song. fuuun FUN beat, makes me want to fucking GROOVE. I love love love this, and I love the way the singer sings? it just makes me wanna UGH. just wanna sway to it. the whine in the croon I just love. and the BEAT. the beat is so fucking good. and the lyrics? “I'm that wholesome Midwestern boy that you want to bring home to your mama. Even though I bring you joy, baby I'm not the toy you wanna play with at night. Too many things I've seen. Too many people and places I've been. I'm thinking about doing those things I shouldn't be doing. Something I've never done before. I want something to fuck me up. Need somebody to fuck me up. Everyone feels like it. Fuck me up, fuck me up, fuck me up” ajdsjkds I LOVE THIS SONG SO MUCH “Well I might go and get drunk and stoned 'cause it's better than being only crazy. If I ever come back, wherever I end up at is where I was supposed to be.” it’s so perfect for his character it drives me crazy. this is a song I’d listen to and first, groove to, and then be like THIS SONG IS HANGMAN. love this song. absolutely a favorite.

the next song though. the next song. fucking hangman adam page and his love of biscuits. southern biscuits by seasick steve oh. my. god. this BOY. THIS COUNTRY BOY. THIS BISCUIT LOVIN COUNTRY BOY. this is such a damn good addition. not only is it so fucking country, almost. spoken/sung? the soft hum with the fucking banjo??? and of COURSE of course he knows and loves this song I can’t with him. and it hits you with the: “ Southern biscuits, nothin' better in the world 'less they're made for you, by your southern girl.” and I go UWU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

two new songs so guess what? classic time. BALANCE. HE’S KEEPING BALANCE. I swear he’s done this purposefully and I could be crazy I could be giving him more credit than is due but I swear he’s picked the arrangement of songs too. because this is too coincidental. so, we’ve got our classic livin on the run by david allan coe. what a DARK song to go with. about a man who murders a woman and lives on the run (again, can’t help but think of the joey ryan murder thing, but hey. that’s just me grasping for straws) regardless if it ties or not, it’s a good classic and it’s fun to croon to even if its uh. dark but sung like. upbeat? almost???

okay, another classic and, to me, one of the sexiest songs on this playlist. I fucking love this song. it’s sexy with an underlying of dark. she literally seduces and knocks the guy out and robs him blind and he’s STILL craving her summer wine like. this song is SO GOOD. so fucking good. the way the music swells with the storytelling is beautiful. “Strawberries cherries and an angel's kiss in spring, my summer wine is really made from all these things. Take off your silver spurs and help me pass the time, and I will give to you summer wine” is just so ajkdfskjdfs ugh i love this song

and guess what? two classics so we’re swinging to a newer song. left turn on a red light by blackfoot. oof. I didn’t know this song and it hit me, it’s so good and I know im saying that about all of them but Honestly. “ Sun shines down on the desert, and it seems to make my life a haze, and I dream of my childhood sweetheart,and the freedom that I had in those days.” UGH. “ Will I always be a rambler? Will the ones I love always keep tellin' me, "You stare too long in the mirror, son, someday you'll be too blind to see.” HELLO???? those lyrics? SO GOOD. and again applying them to hangman just makes me FERAL SCREAM.

cowboys and hippies by cody jinks is such a hangman song it’s almost unreal. if I was going to REALLY reach I’d say it almost reminds me of the way the crowd pulls him back. “At some old honkytonk bar that I know by the smell, some old drunk on a barstool on a Merle Haggard tune. That's my kind of room. Raising hell with the hippies and the cowboys. They don't care about no trends, they don't care about songs that sell. Yeah, tomorrow I'll be gone, so tonight everybody just sing along, raising hell with the hippies and the cowboys” GOOD LYRICS. this has the same sad undertones too as a lot of these songs have too.

ugh. I love him sincerely for this next one. blue skies is one of my favorite songs, but blue skies by willie nelson? YES. my grandpa used to play willie nelson ALL THE TIME and I love this version. an uplifting song to follow the heavier songs. I’d like to think of a hangman who has the blue skies from now on. all of his blue days gone. this song is such a classic (cover) that just. good pick. I love this.

alright, so we’ve got a classic but he’s chosen the version from bojack horseman which makes me think that might’ve been the first time he heard it, but that’s neither here nor there. stars is a BEAUTIFUL song. and boy am I happy we had blue skies before this cause fuck. how sad? how emotional?????? “People lust for fame like athletes in a game, we break our collarbones and come up swinging, some of us are downed some of us are crowned, and some are lost and never found” fuck. fuck fuck fuck. and the last two lines, thinking about hangman? “So if you don't lose patience with my fumbling around, I'll come up singing for you, even when I'm down.” FUCK. my HEART. good pick but OUCH. good but ow.

summertime by orville peck is next BLESS finally an orville song I was gonna lose it on him if he put a playlist and DIDN’T include an orville song. interesting though he went with summertime, the newest, and not any of the ones off pony. but! it follows stars well. its soft, lull, and the lyrics are so hangman now that I put it in this context. “Catch 'em by surprise and chasin' the horizon, nothing holds me down. Askin', "Where the time's gone?" Dreamin' with the lights on, tryna keep your eyes on something along the rise" anyways I know YOU know this song well it’s so fucking good. has that same soft pull a lot of these songs have. the way that chorus swells though? the secondary vocals??? ugh. yeah this was a great choice, I’m glad he went with summertime. it fits the vibe of this playlist so well.

we’re ending on a song with such a country sound to it (i mean all of these do), a bit more upbeat, a bit more funky. “Some say I'm a wild man, drink too much nectar from the corn” and also “Oh the school, it wasn't for me. I earned my stripes a different way I learned to sing harmony and go play out on the stage” definitely makes me think of hangman for SURE. it’s a funky song to end on, and if you keep listening to the playlist on repeat like I do, it even falls into long time gone really well.

and of course this is assuming you’re meant to listen to them one after the other and not on shuffle. I’m sure it still works on shuffle but I LOVE the flow of this playlist listening to it one after the other.

love this whole playlist. and my identifying it with the character could TOTALLY be reaching, but of course I’m going to think of him and analyze his selection of *these* songs specifically to put out to all of us. out of EVERY song he likes. he didn’t include... hmm cowboy take me away, for example? shoulda been a cowboy??? the vibe of the overall playlist FITS “anxious millenial cowboy” it has an underbelly of sadness to it. and I dig the fuck out of that.

overall 10/10 I love this fucking playlist thank you goodnight

#hangman page #ashley answers #ashleys talking again #tw: weed #tw: alcohol #ANYWAYS what i'd said before is #if you read this whole thing i think im obligated to marry you #also. i forget to mention the title of some of the songs i talk about but it follows the list the whole way down #sorry how non-coherent it is i just. lose it.

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im-fairly-whitty · 5 years

Text

Free Wing: An Illustrated Dragon Western

A young Victorian Englishman decides to chase after his dream of being a dragon-riding cowboy in the American Wild West. Set in a world where everything is the same as ours, but instead of horses there are dragons.

[Read Chapter 1]

Chapter 2 - Arrival

“Mister?”

Louis made a muffled grunt as he opened his eyes. A small boy standing in front of him slowly came into focus.

“We’re real close to Cheyenne mister, you said to wake you up?” the boy said.

Behind the boy the passing Wyoming mountains and foothills swaying slightly as they seemed to slide past them.

“Ah. Yes, of course, thank you,” Louis said, clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes as he sat up, having been leaned against Arthur’s flank as they both napped.

Louis dug a coin out of his pocket and gave it to the boy, who grinned. The boy scurried off across the roof of the strider carriage and down the ladder attached to the side, presumably descending to one of the two lower levels.

Louis stood and stretched, breathing in the hot summer morning air around him. Luckily the thrillingly swift leviathan voyage last week and the last six days of strider travel meant he didn’t have to struggle for balance atop the carriage roof as it swayed back and forth with each of the massive beast’s steps.

Arthur made a sleepy clicking noise as he shook his head, getting up and stretching long. The dragon’s tongue curled as he yawned before his jaws snapped shut.

“Good morning to you too.” Louis said, rubbing the small scales under Arthur’s chin as they surveyed the slowly moving landscape around them.

Ahead of them was the long neck and head of the strider, the massive drake the size of a building whose slow plodding steps ate up ground with deceptively fast speed. They’d been lucky to catch an over-land shipping caravan of them setting out from the east coast when they’d landed in New York, continuing their journey west.

The driver had said this shipping company’s striders had come straight from Africa. Louis had heard of the companies working hard to carve trails for strider caravans across the entire North American continent in recent years, but seeing the massive trails and beasts first hand was awe-inspiring.

Big enough to ward off most predators or even bandits, Louis could see why striders’ docile dependability that make them ideal for traders looking to transport tons of goods at a time with as little danger as possible during the summer months.

Or in Louis’ case, passengers.

And now finally, in the distance, Louis could just make out a smudge on the horizon.

Cheyenne, Wyoming. A town that he’d been assured by East coast residents was regularly overrun by cowboys.

Arthur nudged his snout under Louis’ arm, nearly making him fall over.

“No Art, I’m not nervous.” Louis said, pushing Arthur’s head back, “I just...I just can’t believe we’re finally here I guess.”

Arthur shook himself in response, making his loose saddle tack jingle as he stretched his wings out full, giving them an experimental sweep. With all the travel they hadn’t had the chance to do too much flying the last couple weeks, Louis couldn’t blame him for being anxious. At the rate the strider was going it might be another hour before they reached town are all disembarked and Louis was already feeling as itchy to get moving as Arthur.

Louis rubbed his chin, glancing around the carriage roof. Well...they’d already paid their ticket fare, and they didn’t actually have any luggage that needed unloading...

“What say you and I get a head start?” Louis said, smiling as he adjusted Arthur’s bridle and started pulling the buckles tight on his loose saddle.

Arthur flapped his wings again in excited response, nearly knocking Louis over as he stuffed a few things back into the saddlebags and strapped them shut tight.

“Let’s get on with it then.” Louis said, climbing into the saddle and strapping his legs in, checking his top hat’s chin strap. “We could use a flight anyway. Hup!”

Arthur sprang off the carriage roof, gleefully flapping his wings as they soared into the air. Louis let him spiral and swoop for a moment before pulling the reigns to the side, sending them gliding down to the strider’s head where they hovered for a moment, wings beating the air.

“Hullo!” Louis called to the driver, who was seated behind the strider’s head. “We’re going on ahead, don’t look for us at unloading!”

The driver waved his acknowledgment and Louis nudged Arthur on ahead. The dragon happily complied, slicing through the air. Louis smiled and leaned down to streamline them. The sagebrushy land under them zipped by as they sped across the sky, Cheyenne growing quickly as they sped toward it.

As they got closer to the town Louis could see other dragons in the air. Some circling down to land on roof perches, some taking off with sweeping clouds of dust, others tethered in small flocks on the ground. They were huge; easily four times the size of Arthur, with fins on the sides of their heads and sharp claws on the tips of their wings. Spanish Razorwings.

As they got closer Louis couldn’t spot any of the familiar yellow no-landing striping he was used to seeing all over London’s rooftops. Not a clue to be seen about traffic regulations. The only clue was that all the Razorwings seemed to be landed and hitched in paddocks around the edge of town, not a dragon scale to be seen on the streets, only drake carriages pulling cargo being unloaded from the first strider that had already arrived from their caravan.

Which seemed about right, dragons that size would be dangerous on the streets, big enough to collapse the wooden buildings and storefronts that looked anything but sturdy compared to the stone buildings back home. Not to mention that there was not a chance that it was legal to ride Razorwings open bridle.

But Arthur was small enough that they’d always been allowed just about everywhere back home...even indoors some places...they couldn’t get in too much trouble for guessing could they?

“Well that platform seems good as any.” Louis called to Arthur, angling him down toward a wooden platform in the middle of town.

Arthur glided carefully down above the crowd, delicately landing on the platform with as little flapping as possible due to the surrounding crowds. Louis swung down out of the saddle as the sound and smells of the town swept over them. It smelled nothing like London, that was for sure.

“Ho there! You don’t look like the post.”

Louis turned to see a gruff man waving a wide-brimmed hat at them as he approached.

“This here platform’s for Wing Express riders only,” the man called crossly. “If you don’t got mail in those saddlebags of yours then clear off before I call the sheriff.”

“I’m terribly sor-sorry,” Louis stuttered, grabbing Arthur’s reigns and pulling off his hat as the man—he must be the postmaster—approached them. “I couldn’t tell where to land, could you direct us to some place more suitable?”

“A Brit, eh?” the postmaster said, his angry expression shifting to something a bit more patronizing if Louis wasn’t mistaken. “How far off course did you get blown to end up all the way out here?”

“Please, I'm looking for work as a cowboy, is there some kind of notice board I can apply to here in town?” Louis asked, trying to keep himself composed at the man’s rudeness.

The postmaster scoffed, adjusting his glasses, “I reckon you’ve gone and landed yourself in the wrong state for that. Cattle runs end in Cheyenne, everyone here’s busy frittering away their paychecks before flying back down to Texas for their next job. If you’re looking for a saloon or cheap women you’re in the right place, but the cattle barons are all down south.”

Louis’ grip on the reigns tightened painfully as panic shot through him. The wrong state? But the men back east he’d asked had told him...maybe he’d asked all the wrong questions...? He was missing how easy things had been when it was his secretary arranged his traveling.

“I do need you to get off the Wings Express platform, we’re expecting a mail delivery and they’ll be needing the landing space.” The postmaster said, pointing down the wooden steps. “You should also know there’s no wings or guns allowed in town, if the sheriff catches you you’ll be in for a nasty fine. We’ve got a hard enough time keeping tipsy cowboys off the streets with their blasted Razorwings, we don’t need any foreigners flying around giving them ideas.”

“Isn’t there anyone I can ta-ta-talk to?” Louis said, swallowing hard to keep his panic and stupid stutter under control. “I’ve come a very long way, there must be someone you can think of who’s looking for help.”

The postmaster sighed, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes, “There is one new advertisement. Henry Washington came in an hour ago looking for an extra man on a short cattle run down to Denver. Breeding stock that needs delivering I guess.”

“Where can I find Mr. Washington?” Louis asked eagerly.

“He said he’d be down by the General store until noon,” the postmaster said. “Black man wearing a purple vest, ask around and you’ll find him. Now get off my platform.”

Louis quickly nodded in thanks before scrambling up into Arthur’s saddle again, sweeping up off the platform with a powerful push of Arthur’s wings.

It took much longer than Louis would have liked to find someplace on the edge of town to leave Arthur—a safe distance away from a trio of tethered Razorwings eyeing the much smaller dragon suspiciously—hike back into town on foot, manage to get directions from busy or drunk passers-by for directions to the general store, and finally be directed out back to a crate unloading area.

By the time he spotted an African-American man in a suitably cowboyish outfit unloading a crate, Louis thoroughly regretted not having left his too-warm coat back with Arthur.

“E-excuse me, but are you Henry Washington?” Louis asked as he approached, half expecting the cowboy on the other side of the crate not to hear him.

The man looked up with a wary smile, glancing over Louis’s clothes for a moment before dusting off his hands. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”

“I saw Mr. Washington’s advertisement for another rider on his next cattle run?” Louis said, carefully speaking just slowly enough to keep his stutter at bay while he gripped the edge of his hat, “My name is Louis Ainsley, I’ve come to apply to the position.” he swallowed. “If that’s alright.” he added.

The man squinted at Louis, as if convinced he’d misheard him.

“You?” he asked, glancing again at his clothes. Maybe Louis should have purchased new ones after all.

“Yes.” Louis said, squaring his shoulders, “I’m an excellent flier and I work hard and I’ve come all the way from England. I’d very much appreciate the opportunity to join you and your team for your next expedition, assuming of course that you are Mr. Washington.”

The man let out a guffaw that made Louis jump, feeling a slight flush of embarrassment as the man continued to laugh.

“Ammon, come over here.” the man called, waving over a young man, probably Irish by blood judging by the flaming orange hair, “This gentleman’s come all the way from England to join our expedition.”

Ammon looked at Louis with a skeptical smile, “Not in those soft shoes he ain’t.” he said, cocking his hat back as he looked at Louis’ feet. He looked back up and Louis realized Ammon looked even younger than he was, he’d guess as young as seventeen.

“What’s got you over on this side of the pond wanting to run around in the dirt with us for?” probably-Mr. Washington asked, scratching his neck, “Don’t you got high tea with the queen or something?”

“I can pay well, I promise.” Louis said, he had to convince them before they laughed themselves out of town without him, “I can give you eighty pounds up front and eighty more after the cattle run’s over.”

All laughter and smiles stopped abruptly and the two stared at him long enough to make Louis want to crawl into his hat. Had he accidentally offended them somehow?

“You serious mister?” Ammon asked, looking concerned, “You’re supposed to get paid from these things, not the other way arou-”

“I think we could make room on the crew with arraignments like that.” said the still identity unconfirmed man, rubbing his chin.

“Oh lay off, Henry,” Ammon said, shoving the identity confirmed man’s shoulder, “We can’t bring him just because it’ll settle your gambling debts, look at him. If snakes or sunburn don’t get him first Saul’s gonna eat him alive. We don’t even know if he’s got a set of wings.”

“I do!” Louis said quickly, eagerly grasping at this slightest shift in possibility, “He’s a twenty year old English Fieldracer, fastest dragon in England, we’ve flown together our whole lives.”

“A Fieldracer?” Ammon asked, giving a low whistle, “You really do got money then don’t you?”

“I’d say we’ve got our new recruit.” Henry said happily, reaching out to shake hands.

“Saul won’t like it.” Ammon said, pushing Henry’s hand down before Louis could shake it.

“Saul don’t like anything.” Henry rolled his eyes, but he folded his arms, “You let me worry about it alright? If we take mister Ainsley with us he gets to have the cowboy experience of his dreams, and the three of us get paid two year’s worth of wages to split. All we gotta do is keep him alive, it’s a win all around as far as I can reckon. We’d be fools to pass it up.”

“What makes you so sure you won’t die before we finish?” Ammon said, looking back to Louis, “I mean no offense mister, but I’d feel real bad leaving you and your fancy wings buried under sagebrush someplace because you didn’t know what you were in for. Cattle runs are long dirty business, there ain’t gonna be no little sandwiches or carriages or butlers out there on the plains, and if you wanna turn back we can’t leave to herd behind to bring you.”

“I promise I know what I’m getting into,” Louis said earnestly, “I know I don’t look like it, but coming out to be a cowboy has been my dream since I was a boy. I’ve read everything I can about the west, and taught myself how to handle a lasso, and when I fly Arthur through London I imagine we’re threading through slot canyons and over prairies.

“I’m here because I haven't done anything else in my life that I’m proud of and if I have to go back to the horrid bank my father left me I really think I’m going to die. I need to be out here Mr. Washington, I don’t care what chores you give me, I promise you’ll never hear a word of complaint from me, I really desperately would like to join you and finally see what it’s like out on the plains and this is the only way I know how to do it.”

Louis didn’t know what it was exactly about Henry’s expression that changed during his speech, but whatever it was it made the man look less amused, almost sad looking. More earnest.

“Look here son,” Henry said, putting a hand on Louis’s shoulder, “plenty of us are out here running from some thing or another, I can’t fault you for that. But is this really something you reckon you can handle or is it just the first dangerous thing that came to mind when you settled on running off? As much as I’d like your money, truth is I don’t want to bury you any more than Ammon does.”

“I promise I can do it.” Louis said firmly, “And even if I do decide to turn back early, which I won’t, I’ll still make sure you get your money. I can’t leave until I’ve at least tried.”

Henry sighed, looking at Ammon, who soberly shrugged back.

“Saul won’t like it.” Henry said.

“You said you’d take care of Saul, remember?” Ammon said with a smirk.

“Alright, alright.” Henry said, good naturedly shoving Ammon’s hat down over his eyes, “Go unpack your saddle already before we move out, I’ll take care of the kid.”

He waved Louis over to follow him to where Ammon was hauling a wooden crate away from a stack that had “H. Washington” stamped on the side of them.

“Here, first cowboy job for you is to help me get this crate open.” Henry said, tossing Louis a crowbar.

Louis barely managed to catch the length of metal, dropping his hat in excitement as he grinned like an idiot.

“You mean it? You’ll let me come?” Louis asked, almost wondering if he’d hallucinated the last fifteen minutes, having imagined this moment so many ways over and over again for years.

“Don’t look so surprised about it, kid,” Henry said, wedging his crowbar under the crate lid and jerking the corner up, “Have a bit of confidence.”

“I, uh, I’ll try.” Louis said, doing his best not to look like a fool as he struggled to replicate Henry’s quick work. “I haven't done very much physical labor before,”—any physical labor actually if you didn’t count playing cricket, which he very much doubted they did—“but I promise I’ll learn quickly.”

“That’s alright son, we’ve all got our faults.” Henry said cheerfully, leveraging the rest of the crate lid off, “Saul’s as friendly as a horned toad, I’ve got my gambling, and Ammon’s a Mormon.”

“You’re just sour you’ve never won a penny off me because of it.” Ammon called back with a grin from where he was wrestling a new dragon saddle out of his crate and hefting it onto a waiting drake cart.

“He don’t gamble and he don’t swear and you’ll never be able to borrow a drop of whisky off him.” Henry said with a resigned sigh, pushing his hat back a bit as he started loading brown paper-wrapped packages out of their crate and onto the wagon as well. “Makes him about useless on a cattle drive if he weren’t so handy with the actual cowboying parts. Come on, this is the last of it, let’s head back to our flock, Saul’s waiting for us.”

“Who’s Saul?” Louis asked, quickly climbing up onto the cart with the other two as Henry finished loading.

“Who’s the gringo?”

Louis swallowed as a large man climbed into the driver’s seat ahead of them, picking up the drake’s reigns and shooting a dark look back at them, “And what’s he doing in our supply wagon?”

“Ah! Saul, I thought you were going to meet us back at the flock tether?” Henry said, slapping the Mexican man on the shoulder as the wagon started to move. Louis couldn’t help noticing the raking scars across the man’s face and arm.

“Had to buy more lead,” Saul said shortly, nodding to the empty holster on his hip, “Now, who’s this and what’s he doing on our wagon?”

“His name’s Louis Ani-something.” Ammon said cheerfully, climbing onto the driver’s bench beside Saul, “Lou here’s going to pay us a hundred and sixty pounds to come on the Denver shieldhorn run with us! I dunno how many dollars that is but it sounds like a bunch.”

“No he’s not.” Saul said flatly, “Get him off my wagon.”

“Come on Saul,” Henry said with a sigh, “He’s paying good and the run will only be a week. I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble.”

“We’re not bringing a tourist with us,” Saul said, shaking his head. “He’ll get himself killed, or else he’s a rustler. Look at him.”

“If he is he’s the softest rustler I ever seen.” Ammon smirked. “What’re you so scared of? Let him come, my ma and pa could use the money and he’ll be good for laughs anyhow. Lou says he doesn’t even care if he dies, it’ll be alright having him along.”

“I s-sa-said I won’t be a bother to any of you and that I w-won’t trouble any of you for protection, I’ll take care of myself.” Louis quickly clarified. “I just want to come along and I’ll help however you want me to.”

Saul looked at him for a long moment, his icy gaze making Louis shiver.

“I say we bring him.” Henry said, “You don’t gotta look at him if you really hate it that much Saul, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I think it’s a bad idea.” Saul said.

“I’m the one who invited you on this run, and now I’m inviting Lou,” Henry said sternly. “I’m the one who found the guy wanting us to move his breeding stock so it’s my run. Besides, pay like that’s enough to finally get my sister and her kids away from South Carolina and over to Kansas, so this conversation’s over.”

Soul growled a little bit at that, but looked ahead silently instead of pushing the issue.

“I’m sorry if this is inconveniencing,” Louis said timidly.

“Don’t worry about it too much.” Ammon said with a smile. “If Saul hasn’t shot you yet it means he likes you well enough.”

“Oh...good.” Louis said weakly.

“Does he at least have his own wings?” Saul grunted as he reigned the cart over toward the three Razorwings Louis had left Arthur near. The middle and biggest Razorwing—a large green one with yellow face and legs—eyed them sharply, no doubt the flock leader.

“Yes! I do, he’s right there actually, the Fieldracer there.” Louis said, jumping off the cart with the others as they pulled to a stop by the dragons. “Are these your Razorwings? What a coincidence!”

“Wooeee, look at that little guy!” Ammon said, pushing his hat back with a grin as he looked at Arthur, who folded his wings tightly against his side at the stares of the three strangers. “Don’t he get dirty real fast? And he’s so tiny, I bet he’d lose a fight with a shieldhorn no contest.”

“Well it hasn’t been an issue up until this point, our roostmasters have always kept Arthur sparkling.” Louis said. Arthur pushed his head nervously against Louis’ chest as he got closer, still eyeing the huge Razorwings. Louis wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck comfortingly, “I suppose we’ll have to get used to quite a bit more dirt now though.”

“I’ll say,” Ammon said with a laugh, walking over to the smallest of the Razorwings, who was still more than double the size of Arthur. This one was a darker green with red coloring.

“This is Rusty.” Ammon said, grabbing Rusty’s head spikes as the dragon nudged him. Louis’ breath caught in concern as the dragon lifted Ammon an easy ten feet in the air, playfully shaking his head back and forth as the boy hung onto Rusty’s snout. “He was my brother’s,” Ammon called, dropping back to the ground as Rusty lowered his head, much to Louis’ relief. “Still pretty young and he’ll give you trouble if you let him.”

There was a rattling hiss that made the ground vibrate and Arthur push his head closer to Louis. Louis looked up at the yellow patterned Razorwing in the middle as it raised its wings threateningly as Rusty’s antics, making the younger dragon crouch low to the ground in submission.

“That’s Cassidy,” Henry said, rolling his eyes as he carried an armload of packages over to the last dragon, a blue-green Razorwing with orange coloring who looked downright bored at Rusty and Cassidy’s altercation, “She’s even moodier than Saul and twice as pushy, but she’s the flock leader and Saul rides her open mouth—he only bridles her closed when we come into towns—so make sure to keep your pint-sized Fieldrunner out of biting range of her. And this is Major, he won’t give you any trouble at all.”

“O-open mouth?” Louis asked quietly, swallowing at the sudden hoarseness in his voice as he watched Cassidy shove against Rusty. Would Arthur be able to take that kind of roughness? Different breeds didn’t always mix safely. What if Ammon had already been in the saddle and gotten his leg crushed just now? “But she’s enormous, I didn’t think that was legal?”

“Don’t worry, she behaves when there’s riders.” Henry chuckled, starting to load Major’s saddlebags. “But she and Saul are good at what they do and they don’t allow nonsense from no one, so it’s probably just best to give them space, got it?”

Louis nodded mutely, watching Saul walk up to Cassidy with a sharp whistle and some barked words in Spanish. Cassidy huffed a last sharp breath at Rusty, then snapped her wings shut, lowering her head to Saul who continued to talk in softer Spanish as he scratched her chin.

“They seem close at least.” Louis observed quietly as he helped Henry pull things off the wagon.

“They should be, he raised her.” Henry said. “He’d be a fool to ride her open mouth if they weren't so close, that’s the only reason I ride with them. As it is, they’re the best in the cow punching business when they aren’t off hunting outlaws.”

“What do you mean by-”

“Say, I don’t suppose you’ve got any supplies of your own in those saddlebags?” Henry asked, glancing at Arthur.

“Well no, I suppose-”

“Alright, you and me, the general store. We’ll take the wagon back to return it.” Henry said with a sigh, strapping one of Major’s bags shut. “Ammon’s right when he says those shoes won’t last you three days and you’ll have to carry your own rations too. And you stay close to me, alright? We’re picking up the Shieldhorn breeding stock in an hour and you’re going to have to keep up, got it?”

“Yes sir.” Louis said, standing up straight. “And thank you again for letting me come along. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet, son.” Henry said, climbing up onto the drake wagon. “Wait to see whether or not you and your dragon come out on the other side of this week in one piece.”

Louis didn’t quite know what to say in response to that and so he said nothing, instead pulling on his best cowboy face as he gave Arthur a last pat and climbed back into the wagon.

He was going to survive the week, and it was going to be great.

He was at least sixty five percent sure of it.

-----------

If you haven’t already be sure to check the [#free wing] tag on my blog to see what other art and worldbuilding that I’ve made for the Free Wing world. Free Wing content takes some time to create since I use it to push my art skills, but I love sharing it with all y’all!

Asks about the world and other details as always are accepted, I love hearing your thoughts and questions, especially since they have a way of helping the story grow! Up next I’m putting together some breed profiles on the megafauna we’ve seen so far; milewings, leviathans, and striders. Also something for the South American Perchers since a very patient anon asked about them ages ago. See you then!

- Wit

#dnd #dragon #dragon rider #dragon riders #dragons #free wing #back at it again with the cowboy lizards #wit art #my ocs #louis #arthur #saul #henry #ammon #cassidy #major #rusty

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queenofcarrots · 5 years

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Since John described Finn as a space cowboy I’m suddenly in Need of Finn as a former cowboy turned lawman in the West who has to hunt down outlaw “Kylo Ren” the leader of the gang the Knights of Ren

Nonnie, thank you so much for this! I’ve been thinking about the Space Cowboy thing and I love the idea of an Old West AU. Here’s my wee contribution to the genre, I’ve gone and made it on brand, hope you enjoy! (Also on AO3)

*****

Finn looked up from the telegram just in time to see the man walk by the front window of the sheriff’s office. He was in the middle of the street, several feet away, but Finn would recognize him anywhere. He swore, jumped up from his seat, checked to make sure his pistols were secure in their holsters, and ran outside.

“Kylo Ren!” he shouted.

Jannah and Miss Rose glanced up from where they’d been conversing outside the saloon, and Finn saw out of the corner of his eye as Father Luke scurried from where he’d been sweeping the front step of the church into the cool dark of its interior.

Jannah moved to stand in front of Miss Rose and reached for her pistol, but Finn warned her off with a shake of his head, and the woman stood down, but kept her hand at the ready.

Kylo Ren - The Tall Man, The Man in Black, The Sorcerer; leader of The Knights, the most infamous gang in the West, a gang that Finn knew far too well - turned around slowly to face Finn, both his pistols and the ancient broadsword he kept strapped across his back secure in their places. He held up his hands, as though in supplication, but even so a look of amusement passed across his pale, worn face.

“Traitor!” Kylo Ren shouted down the hot, dusty avenue, but he didn’t sound angry; his tone was more like amused affection, and it made Finn’s stomach churn and his blood boil.

“That was a long time ago, Ren.”

Kylo Ren shrugged. “How’s the girl?” The corner of his mouth twitched, pulling at the gnarled scar that bisected the right side of his face and disappeared below his collar. The girl - Rey - had given him that scar the last time she’d seen him. Finn hadn’t been there, but she’d told him about it afterwards.

“I left him half-dead in the snow. I cut half his face off and left him in the snow.” He’d looked the other way as she’d wiped tears off her cheeks. He’d considered asking her why she didn’t finish the job, but he knew the answer and hadn’t wanted to make her say it.

She was a woman now, and she was safe, raising sheep in a small farmstead a few miles on the other side of town, but Finn wasn’t going to tell him that.

“What are you doing here, Ren?” Finn called down instead.

“Fair enough,” the other man answered. “I assume you received the telegram?”

He had. It was from the sheriff’s office in Saint Louis, warning of an escaped convict, most dangerous, who they suspected was heading straight for the homestead town of Jakku. Their recommendation was to shoot on sight and hold the body for a reward, but Finn knew that he could never do that.

“Saw the telegram. Puts me in a bit of a pickle.”

Kylo Ren laughed at that, the smile lighting up his face and making Finn’s heart twist in his chest.

Movement caught in the corner of Finn’s eye. The women on the second floor of the saloon had decided that what was happening outside was more exciting than what was happening inside and were clustered at the windows; the wan, unsmiling visage of Armitage Hux peeking out a window confirmed his suspicion. Further down the street, Mr Mitaka was peeking out the door of the grocery, Mrs Holdo at his side. Now they had an audience. Great.

“You’re in more than a pickle, Sheriff Storm. Don’t suppose the telegram told you what else was coming?” Ren could apparently tell from the expression on Finn’s face that he had no idea, and he laughed again but this time his laugh was dark and without humor.

The sound of distant hoofbeats sounded in Finn’s ears, and rather than answer the man he stood still, frozen, waiting for the imminent arrival of the rider. They all stood still, quiet, waiting.

She rode up on Falcon, the horse she’d inherited with Kylo Ren’s patricide. He wasn’t a beautiful steed, but he got the job done. She came from behind Ren, encircled him three times - Finn suspected it was a charm, but for the safety of whom he couldn’t rightly say - and then rode to Finn and dismounted, taking her place beside him.

“I had a feeling,” she murmured.

“Must have been quite a feeling,” Finn answered back, eyeing the broadsword strapped to her own back. She smiled, and they both turned back to face Kylo Ren.

He hadn’t moved, and his expression was blank, but Finn could sense his agitation below the surface.

“So what else is coming, Ren?” Finn asked.

“Something big,” the man replied, drawing his hands apart as though to illustrate exactly how big it was. “Something not of this world.”

Kylo Ren reached for his weapons and immediately several pistols and a sword were pointed at his head, but he kneeled in the dirt and unbuckled first his holsters and then his scabbard, and laid them all on the ground in front of them. With a nod Jannah sauntered out and carried them away, leaving Kylo Ren by himself and unarmed, on his knees in the dust.

“They’re coming,” he growled, loud enough that everyone could hear. “They’re coming here, and we have to be ready. I can help you.” He gazed through the space separating himself from Finn and Rey, and said more softly, beseechingly, “let me help you.”

Finn traded a glance with Rey and the both put away their weapons; the others reluctantly followed suit.

“We’ll give you a chance, Ren. One chance. What is it that’s coming, and how can you help?”

#finnreylo #old west au #drabble #eldritch?#past finnlo?#past reylo?#current finnrey?#so many options #ask #anon

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ink-logging · 5 years

Text

More Superhero Comics, Revealing My Reactionary and Facile Engagement with Art as Little More Than the Accrual of Social Capital, Benefiting Nobody But Myself, 4/7/19

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Vol. 4: The Tempest #5 (of 6), Alan Moore, Kevin O’Neill, Ben Dimagmaliw, Todd Klein: This is an often very funny issue, set up like a pasted-together UK edition of old US pre-Code horror and crime comics, which, in addition to being funny, plumps up the page count as the plot moves maybe two or three tics forward in advance of the very-last-issue-of-LoEG-ever. The conservative in me wonders why we’re being this digressive in the penultimate number of the entire saga, but then -- at least since “The Black Dossier” -- this project has been more about positioning various strands of fiction and their accrued cultural baggage against one another than telling a propulsive adventure story. Anyway: the realm of Faerie, having easily survived an attempted nuclear strike on the collective imagination by a military-corporate black ops fiction squad comprised entirely of various revamps of James Bond, has brought in every character from every game, comic, cartoon, TV show, movie and book reality with everything for a HUGE apocalypse!

Scenes of bedlam involve: the life story of Victorian painter and murderer Richard Dadd; cameos by Stardust the Super Wizard and David Britton’s Lord Horror; the oeuvre of musician Warren Zevon, brought to terrifying life; a Corbenesque image of a nude muscleman’s massive dick flapping into battle in 3-D; Mick Anglo’s Captain Universe, presented by Moore in unmistakable evocation of his own Marvelman/Miracleman stories of decades ago; a ghost wearing the word CRIME on his head a la Charles Biro’s Mr. Crime, the greatest American comic book horror host; at least one figure from the annals of racist caricature firing powerful sound waves from his mouth; a monster named Demogorgon, the leviathan of Populism, which the heroes allegorically cross as a footbridge en route to a safehouse named the Character Ark; a page-long parody of Batman (via the forgotten UK superhero playboy character the Flash Avenger), describing his origin as motivated entirely by hatred of the poor; a text feature telling of UK comics artist Denis McLoughlin, who worked consistently since the end of WWII, never made enough money to retire, and spent decades as an elderly man drawing for survival on titles he hated, eventually taking his own life in his 80s; and the secret of what happened to all the British superhero characters after the midcentury, which is that they were all eaten by Capitalism, pretty much. I laughed a bunch, but if you think LoEG is tedious shit, this probably won’t turn you around.

Savage Dragon #242, Erik Larsen, Ferran Delgado, Nikos Koutsis, Mike Toris: The latest installment of the longest-running Image comic written and drawn by one of the Image founders, now deeply dove into problematic network tv drama stuff. The Dragon’s relationship with his partner Maxine is still strained in the wake of her sexual assault, a video of which the Dragon viewed in the police archives; meanwhile, the mother of one of the Dragon’s young children has been telling them all the truth about their parentage, further disrupting the peace of the household. Also, a formerly aggressive sex robot has joined the gang, dressed as an anime maid. And, the Dragon reluctantly teams up with the mid-’00s-vintage sexy heroine character Ant (which Larsen purchased from creator Mario Gully a few years ago) to foil a scheme by elderly elites to project themselves into the bodies of mythic gods in order to provoke the Rapture. Most interesting to me, however, is a bonus segment in which Larsen presents newly-lettered pages of his preliminary solo work on “Spawn” #266 (Oct. 2016), which would later be filled out by contributions from Todd McFarlane, colorist FCO Plascenscia, and letterer Tom Orzechowski.

As usual, I prefer the ‘unfinished’ version (top) to the official release product (bottom).

Superman Giant #9, Erika Rothberg, ed.

Batman Giant #9, Robin Wildman, ed.

These are two of those 100-page DC superhero packages they sell for five bucks exclusively at Walmart (for now; later this year they’re gonna have them in comic book stores too), which marry one new 12-page story per issue with three full-length reprint comic books from elsewhere in the 21st century. I just wanted to know what was inside them. Here is what I found:

-The new Batman comic is written by Brian Michael Bendis as a very conspicuously all-ages prospect, where the story is about nothing more than what it’s about, and the title character is presented as a serious-minded but inquisitive and compassionate man of adventure. This issue -- just in time for the remix of “Old Town Road” featuring Billy Ray Cyrus -- Batman and Green Lantern travel back to the Old West, trade in their superhero outfits for cowboy clothes, and meet up with Jonah Hex. Nick Derington draws the heroes smooth and squinting with Swanian sincerity, and Dave Stewart colors it all bright and sunny. This is not my thing at all, but it’s confident to the point of acting like almost a rebuke to the rest of the book, where literally everything else is chapter whatever of a nighttime doom ballad drawn by either Jim Lee or something trying very hard to look like him.

-Like:

I can spot the differences, sure - if nothing else, reading superhero comics trains you to spot differences in otherwise similar things. But, there is absolutely an aesthetic at work. The top page is from an issue of “Nightwing” that tied into the 2012 “Night of the Owls” crossover in the Batman titles, produced by a seven-person drawing and coloring team fronted by pencillers Eddy Barrows & Andres Guinaldo. The writer, Kyle Higgins, has Dick Grayson fight his semi-immortal great-grandfather, who is an assassin for the Court of Owls: one of the more popular recent Batman organizations of villainy, presented here as a fascist group mediating society’s function through murder from the gray space between social classes. The Graysons, therefore, are the Gray Sons, but Nightwing resists the pull of destiny by winning a big fight, slinging the villain over his shoulder, and walking away toward a better future of just beating the shit out of bad people instead of killing them, I think. The Batgirl story -- from 2011, written by Gail Simone -- is comparatively orthodox, finding the character gripped with uncertainty about the superhero life and going about some downtime character-building activities, though most of it’s a big fight with a villain with a tragic past. The penciller, Ardian Syaf, kind of has trouble blocking the action so that characters’ movements are clear; I think Syaf is best known for having his contract with Marvel terminated in 2017 for slipping what were widely interpreted as anti-Christian and antisemitic references to Indonesian politics into an X-Men comic.

-There is a whole lot of Jeph Loeb among the reprints. He is not a writer who has been in critical fashion for much the past two decades, but he has undoubtedly sold a lot of comics for DC, and they probably feel he can do it again. The Batman book is serializing (deep breath) “Hush”, a 2002-03 storyline notable for its extraordinarily easy-to-solve central mystery, and generally being a taped-together excuse for Jim Lee to draw as many popular Batman characters as possible across 12 issues; it sold like hot cakes. The highlight of chapter 9 is probably a bit where a three person fight ends in one panel, and then one of the characters leaves, and then a second character wakes up from unconsciousness and also leaves, and then the first character comes back and nurses the third (also unconscious) character back to health, and then Batman arrives, all in the transition between the aforementioned panel and the next, which takes place in the same room; such is the befuddling desire to race ahead to more spectacle. Jim Lee (with Scott Williams and Alex Sinclair) is indeed Jim Lee (et al.) throughout, though at one point the team drops a howler of a swordfighting panel where Batman’s blade appears to grows to JRPG length due to what I think is the colorist filling two whoosh lines with the same hue as the swords.

Meanwhile, the Superman book is serializing a 2004 storyline from “Superman/Batman” -- the series where Loeb has Superman describe the action on the page with his own Superman-branded captions, and Batman does the same with Bat-captions, and Superman says tomayto and Batman says tomahto -- in which the late Michael Turner, one of the rock star 2nd generation Image artists, illustrates a new introduction for Supergirl. But this isn’t quite the same comic that was originally published... can YOU spot the difference?

Is this like how Walmart won’t sell CDs that have an explicit content sticker, but with teen superhero g-strings? It’s hard to explain to younger readers how the low-rise/thong panties combo forever sealed the horniness of a generation of het male superhero artists into the late 1990s, and maybe DC doesn’t want to face that. Or, they’re just leery of how Turner slipping some peekaboo glimpse of Supergirl’s underpants or bare thighs into virtually every panel in which she is depicted below the waist might affect the marketability of the comic in 2019 - although I guess it could have happened in an earlier reprint somewhere too.

-The new Superman comic is a series of 12 splash pages depicting a race between Superman and the Flash. There is very little sense of speed, because Andy Kubert (inked by Sandra Hope, colored by Brad Anderson) draws the characters as frozen in time in a way that prioritizes muscular tension in the manner of contemporary superhero cover art; at one point the two characters part the sea with the force of their bodies, and it looks to me like they’re gesticulating in front of a theatrical backdrop. And, anyway, the story pulls back almost every other page to depict Batman standing on a ledge, or Lex Luthor in a sinister chair -- or some birds flying next to a building, or the Earth as viewed from space with streaks on it -- as the race occurs deep in the background or off to one side. The point is not excitement, but reflection, as imposed upon us by the between 13 and 21 narrative captions and/or dialogue balloons pasted atop all but the first page.

The writer is Tom King, whose “Mister Miracle” (with artist Mitch Gerads) gets a double-page advertisement later in the book, festooned with breathless blurbs from major media outlets. His narrator here is a little girl who is literally chained in captivity, clutching a Superman doll, and delivering her soliloquy in a manner of a superhero-themed TED talk with handclap repetitions on the nature of contradiction. Being faster than a speeding bullet is a CONTRADICTION. Being as strong as a locomotive is a CONTRADICTION. Leaping tall buildings in a single bound is a CONTRADICTION. Superman is about to lose the race, but then he wins, because to beat the Fastest Man Alive is... a contradiction. No wonder the GQ entertainment desk was blown away. DC comics do this kind of thing a lot, where they just have the writer tell you how great the characters are, and since you’re still reading superhero comics in the 21st century, you’re expected to pump your fists in recognition, because you and the writer and everyone at DC are just big ol’ fans... but I am not, because I am Jesus Christ, the only son of God.

-Elsewhere in the Superman book is an issue of “Green Lantern” from 2006, drawn by Ethan Van Sciver (inked with Prentis Rollins, colored by Moose Baumann), who is known today mostly as a conservative ‘personality’ online. He also netted more than half a million dollars last July in a crowdfunding campaign to make a 48-page comic book which he has not yet finished; funny to see an American right-winger on the French schedule. Funnier still to see the kind of people (mostly guys of a certain age) who mill around such personalities croaking about how diversity is ruining comics, because ALMOST EVERY FUCKING STORY IN BOTH OF THESE 100-PAGE BOOKS IS DRAWN BY EITHER SOME DUDE FROM THE 1990s OR SOMEBODY WORKING EXPLICITLY IN THAT STYLE, but - I guess when you’ve been pampered for so long, every paper cut feels like a ripped limb. Speaking of dismemberment, the writer here is Geoff Johns, who is often pegged as a superhero traditionalist, though he also has a grasp of gory pomp which occasionally pushes the comics he writes into a Venn diagram set with loud youth manga... at least in terms of how the action plays out, all broad and pained. So, needless to say, he’s currently writing “Doomsday Clock”, which is DC’s present attempt to extend the publication life of the valuable “Watchmen” property, so that they needn’t return it to the original creators, per the original writer, Alan Moore.

-To hear Alan Moore say it, the America’s Best Comics line was done on a work-for-hire basis as a means of ensuring prompt payment of the various creators from Jim Lee’s WildStorm, the original publisher. WildStorm was then acquired by DC (Jim Lee is now their co-publisher and chief creative officer), and Moore -- who has been (fairly) criticized in the past for taking ethical stances that cause financial harm to his artistic collaborators, who are in a less economically flexible position than writers in the comic book field -- allowed the line to continue under DC’s ownership, as to cancel everything would disadvantage everyone working on the titles. One of those titles, “Tom Strong”, was written by Moore and pencilled by Chris Sprouse for a while, and then there was a long line of guest creators, and then Moore and Sprouse came back when the ABC line wrapped, so that the concept could reach its logical termination point in an apocalyptic manner... Moore does love an apocalypse. The final story in the Superman book is a very recent, late 2018 issue of “The Terrifics”, in which we find an attempt to revive the DC-owned Tom Strong characters as players in broader DC stories. Jeff Lemire & José Luís are the primary creators. Jack Cole’s Plastic Man is there, as well as the John Ostrander/Tom Mandrake version of Mister Terrific. It’s a lot of offbeat characters; we even see Moore’s own parody of Hoppy the Marvel Bunny, because, I mean, Alan Moore does a lot of riffs on preexisting characters too, right? It’s a big blob of cartoon whimsy, filled with available characters running around. If they’re available, you might as well roll ‘em out, off the new releases rack and into a supermarket reprint package stacked in a box next to squeeze toys and discount Pokémon merchandise, which I bought, because it was really cheap.

-Jog

#JogList

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criticalthinkingedu-blog · 5 years

Text

The Last Leaf

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow.

"She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

"Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.

"Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.

Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

"Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

And hour later she said:

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

#the last leaf #o`henry

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u-dont-care-kms-blog · 7 years

Text

The last leaf

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. "She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?" "She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue. "Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?" "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten." After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together. Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. "What is it, dear?" asked Sue. "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." "You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." "Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." "Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves." "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy." "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet." "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes." Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. "It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time." "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. "I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." And hour later she said: "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. "Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all." And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

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kyreniacommentator · 4 years

Text

By Ismail Veli…….

Many people go through life working hard, trying to enjoy themselves and save up for a comfortable retirement.

Nothing wrong with that, BUT and it’s a big BUT, sadly once the pension age knocks on their door many find that with so much time on their hands they simply start getting bored, don’t know what to do and often return to work just to pass the time. The reason is that all through their life the idea of having a real hobby to concentrate their time and relax simply did not exist. So why is having hobbies so important? Firstly a hobby is only acquired out of a love to create and doing what one really enjoys and free from the stress of real life. It can be time consuming but unlike work it’s something that an individual enjoys doing. I consider myself lucky that having come to the UK from Cyprus in 1962 as a 6 year old, the value of creative and fun hobbies was impressed upon children long before the advent of computers and other electronic games which though good in themselves can hold back the ability to be creative on different levels.

I never forget when my parents brought home packs of cereals which we had never seen in the Lurucina of 1962. To my delight out popped small packets of miniature 72ml figures of cowboys and Indians. Though I wasn’t particularly keen on this new found breakfast alternative to the Cypriot Olives and bread, I lost no time in eating as much cereals as possible in order to expand my collection of figures. It wasn’t long before I watched Western films (Rawhide was the craze in those days) to learn what I could and the Library was only 10 minutes walk away for some amazing books. I soon realised that if I collected matchboxes, plastacene, pebbles and larger boxes I could create a small diorama with wagons, small hills and rockery. This caused me to spend hours in my bedroom simply creating and experimenting with whatever I could. Books were a fantastic addition as it gave me a great insight into the past way of life.

When I was 11 years old I was interviewed by a local secondary school ‘Highbury Boy’s School’, the interview went badly as I was immensely shy. I was accepted to Islington Green (or Tudor Rose as it was formerly called) which was about 2 miles away. It was one of the best things that happened in my life. I made a friend named Gary Deemer who lived around the corner in Duncan Terrace and the street was full of air-fix model shops, lead figures, paints, brushes and scenery for the figures. I had found my paradise. At the time I was given 2 shillings (10p in today’s money) a day school money. half a shilling each way and one shilling for my school dinner. Nothing left to buy a box of 40-50 figures which if I remember correctly cost 2 and a half shillings. I was not about to give up. I decided that walking to and back the 4 mile round trip from school was actually fun and most afternoons the local chip shop only cost half a shilling for a portion of chips which I loved anyway. That gave me a whole 75% of my pocket money to invest in my hobby.

I soon diversified into Napoleonic’s, US Marines, Japanese, British Commandos, Paratroopers, Desert Rats (the 8th Army) Germans, Russians, US Cavalry, Indians and my favourites Ancient Romans and Celts. No sooner was I home from school then I would rush to the library for my quota of 4 books (which was the limit in those days) in order to study all aspects of the history of these historic people. Frankly I think my parents were a little worried, not that they allowed me to run out and play in the streets which I had little interest for, but for the fact that I was alone in my room for hours until it was bedtime. My food had to be brought to my bedroom and only when relatives came for a visit did I venture out so as not to be rude. It was not until I grew up and started work when many adults started to take the micky that I was still playing with ‘toy soldiers’, sadly many Cypriots in those days considered this as childish. This forced me to go a bit discreet. But I more than made up for this by reading, jigsaw puzzles, drawing and whatever I could find to pass my time. In fact adults in the family thought I was so quiet that I would never meet anyone to marry (another obsession with Cypriots was that if you weren’t married at 20 there was something wrong). That was until July 1974 when I was due to visit my grandparents around the 22-24 July .

With the war in Cyprus the travel agent asked if I wanted an alternative booking. I picked up a brochure for California but knew my father would oppose that. At 18 and the USA so far away he simply thought I would run into trouble. My uncle was ill in bed at the time but he stepped in and told my father off, ”Let the young man go, it may open his eyes a bit or your stuck with him”. This turned things around for me. Sadly My uncle died on 10 September 1974 due to a brain tumour at the tender age of only 29. It was a traumatic experience which taught me the value of life even further. I did actually go to Los Angeles, California and then onto Las Vegas in Nevada. It was three weeks that completely changed my life. I became much more chatty with adults, and my newfound skills and experience gave me confidence in debating world issues.

When I married in 1977 my first priority was to buy a house and have a family. The economic turmoil of the late 1970s and 1980s were tough but when my wife and I had 2 lovely boys in 1981 and 1983 I was determined to help encourage them to have hobbies and always took them to the library. Like most children they enjoyed puzzles and Legos which I spent lots of time helping them with. In 1989 we decided to take a well earned holiday of 3 weeks to Hawaii. The boys were 8 & 6 respectively. On our visit to the Arizona memorial at Pearl Harbour we naturally visited the gift shop in order to buy something for the lads. They both wanted model ships of the USS Arizona and USS Missouri, plus a book each. My wife and I both agreed to give them a little extra treat and buy them figures of US Marines and Japanese soldiers to add to their little reward. Coming back to the UK I was very happy that they both relished the idea of building the models. As usual dad was asked to help. I soon added paints, brushes and scenic material to add to their enthusiasm. It brought back fantastic memories of where I left of in 1971-2. I decided ‘sod what people thought’ and began to buy figures and start my life’s favourite hobby yet again. Emptying my garage and fixing the walls with good clean melamine boards, I then began to build benches all round. My enthusiasm and pent up frustration at lost years meant that I began to paint figures in droves. initially they were plastic Airfix, but a friend introduced me to a lead figure moulder who after I requested certain types of Republican Romans, Carthaginians, Celts, Spanish and Roman Latin allies he said he was just starting off and to make so many moulds would be costly as he was not certain if he could sell at least 1000 figures. I smiled, I responded ”Mr Sean Pereira if I order 2000 now and another 2000 for 3 months would you be interested”.

His jaw dropped and we shook hands. He offered me a 20% discount and within a year these figures became his best sellers even packing figures off to Italy to other enthusiasts who loved the quality and variety of his figures. His business took off and becoming good friends he began to offer me 25% discounts. Building the dioramas is another fantastic form of relaxation. Gravel, pebbles, sand, match sticks, mini nails, dustsheets, Balsa wood, old rugs for dry bushes. lacquer to preserve some mini plants as trees, PVA glue for rivers, thin MDF for basing the figures, Thick 6×4 MDFs for building the scenic bases and even grape stems to build vineyards and trees were not spared. to reduce the cost of hundreds of different paints and brushes, cleaners, thinners etc I contacted The Revel Model company, opened an account on my business and simply bought them all at wholesale price.

To avoid ignoring time with my family I simply bought large work trays, organised the figures or whatever I was doing and placed them on the tray. So while the boys and I were all spending time in our sitting room I would just get on with my hobby talking and exchanging ideas and even watching our favourite films together. We all took turns in picking what each wanted to watch so we could instil in our children a sense of fairness. Strangely we all seemed to enjoy the same subjects and interest. My wife was never left out. In the summer months I would be the first to wake up, which meant that I could go into the garage and spend time arranging what I had prepared before everyone woke up.

After 25 years and 40.000 figures later my garage is now absolutely packed with many in storage. In the meantime my collection of books and other bi-product hobbies have kept me busy. In the last 3-4 years with no more space I turned my attention to collecting illustrated books on old photos from the mid 1850s to the 1960s. Cyprus, rural England, Cyprus and old postcards became my passion. In the meantime 8 years ago my wife and I became grandparents which again changed my outlook on life.

Having come to the UK in 1962 and a great lover of my adopted country the UK, I still always had a passion to learn of my roots. Our grandson became the inspiration. If I did not start while my ageing parents were still of sound mind it may be too late to begin a solid foundation. The information from other Cypriots was that no archive materials were worth searching for in Cyprus, which made me all the more determined to start recording everything my parents told me. I then decided to travel all over London visiting old relatives to learn of their families. Within 2 years I managed to record about 2000 people over 6-7 generations which actually encompassed the extended family trees of my village of Lurucina. It was early in 2011 when another breakthrough came. a distant relative Alper Mehmet who happened to be the first ethnic ambassador for the UK Government to Iceland approached me after interviewing his family who showed great support for my project. It turned out that his family had records of an old tax collector Ibrahim Tahsildar (born 1898) from Lurucina who just happened to have records of many 1st 2nd and 3rd generations of our roots in Lurucina. He offered me the hand written information on condition that I would return it when finished. I was absolutely over the moon. My first aim was to buy a copier machine and copy every single page ASAP.

My aim was to get the documents back to Alper in quick time so as to honour my promise. after going through every single name I found that some of the writing was hard to read but going over and over I soon began to recognise the more scribbly names and the pattern of reading became easier. Typing them was of course a priority. I began to consider setting up a website in order to share my findings while making constant announcements for people to come forward and share any information at their disposal. The cost of setting up a website (I was not the most savvy of computer users) and having someone download the information was astronomical, in addition how would a stranger know how to arrange all the 4-5 thousand names now on my list. It became a dilemma, until In July 2011 a good friend Ersu Ekrem asked if I wanted his son Ekrem who was studying Computer IT in University to help and advise. They came to visit me on a Sunday and within 5-6 hours after listening and experimenting the young Ekrem came up with a website from Moonfruit that seemed to fit my needs, and user friendly. He taught me how to create pages, photo galleries etc etc. After a couple of short meetings I was finally beginning to download the information in a manner that suited my limited computer skills, and Ekrem and Ersu refused to accept any money for the time and effort they put into helping me. Though not from Lurucina they considered the project as important and fully supported my efforts. I launched the site on 14th August 2011 and the call out for help on Facebook, telephones, emails to every Lurucinali I could find met with an enthusiastic support that I had not even dreamed of. Soon more names, dates, village stories were pouring in.

Finally In November 2013 I decided to travel to Cyprus and search for any existing Ottoman archives. Many had told me not to waste my time but I had to try. It turned out to be the icing on the cake. I visited the national archives and research institute Milli Arşiv and asked if there was anything available on Lurucina. After calling for the Ottoman Translator Mrs Esin Fatma Dogac and explaining what I wanted she came back within ten minutes and gave me the records of the 1879-82 census which had people registered from 1796-1882. On my return to The UK Esin hanim translated the Ottoman script into modern Turkish, the details on age, year of marriage, female names which were missing on the first 3 generations, ownership of land, animals, tax paid, army service were all included, in addition for the first time all the Greek Orthodox population was now added to all the Turkish Muslim family trees. To date I believe there are at least 8.000 people of 11 generations on the website. In addition, historic, folk lore, 400 family nicknames, thousands of family photos, poems, Tsiattista Biimada (these are Greek poems or limericks for want of a better word) which the people of Lurucina excelled in) plus many other features have now been added. all this would not have been possible without the generous and massive support of the people of Lurucina and many friends who are not even from the village. I and my family are forever in their debt.

In the final analysis going back to hobbies and interests I believe it’s important for people to have a variety of interests that can occupy them. With so much fun and education in life retirement should be about enjoying every minute in doing what one enjoys. Life is far too precious to be bored. I refuse to allow a single second for negative boredom. Ultimately we may not be responsible on when we die, but we are responsible on how we live. My work life has been long and hard but I have learned to channel my energy into making the most of my life outside my work. Many people ask how do I find so much time? My simple response is we all have 24 hours in a day, it’s how we use those hours that really counts. Frankly I live every second of it which helps me to remain focused, contented, and need I say I still feel younger then my 58 years. I really cannot wait to retire. I still have a lot of fun ahead. With a lovely supporting wife, children, grandchildren and family I consider myself to be a very fortunate individual. That’s really as rich as one can get.

To visit my website Families of Lurucina please click here

Western town

An imaginary marching camp in ancient times

Battle of Cannae 216 BC Numidian cavalry in front facing Roman allies in classic chequer board formation

Battle of Cannae 216 BC Numidian cavalry

Battle of Cannae 216 BC. The Roman legionaries in classic chequer-board formation

Battle of Cannae 216 BC. Spanish and Celtic infantry

Ottoman cavalry during the Crusader wars

American war of Independence. late 1700s

French Napoleonic army camp and cavalry

Ancient Greeks at the battle of Plataea 479 BC

Ancient Greeks at Plataea 479 BC

Napoleonic wars 1805-15

Wagon train going west 1800s

Post card collection. Posted from Finchley 7.15pm on Oct 16 1908 to Holloway Rd.

Birthday cards were printed in black and white at this period. Its dated April 1908

Oct 28 1905 Posted to the two miss Goodings to Felixstowe, from 288 Seven Sisters

A card to W. A Thatcher, West Peckham dated April 28 1904

If you are Self Isolating to avoid Coronavirus do you have a hobby to keep you sane? .......Ismail Veli tells us about his and if you want to share yours with others do send details to CyprusScene By Ismail Veli....... Many people go through life working hard, trying to enjoy themselves and save up for a comfortable retirement.

#Familiesoflurucina #Cyprus #Hobbies #Ismail Veli #London #Lurucina

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im-fairly-whitty · 5 years

Text

Free Wing: An Illustrated Dragon Western — Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Decision

Louis had thought he would cry at his father’s funeral.

“Stand up straight.” his mother whispered, jabbing a finger against his lower back, making him jolt upright again, “And take off that hat, the priest is speaking.”

Louis dutifully swept off his top hat, glancing at the sea of sniffling black crepe gathered closely around the entry of his family’s crypt. His father’s coffin rested outside the doorway, waiting to be laid to rest beside other fathers, and father’s fathers, and all kinds of other rich family members Louis had never met.

The fact that Dad was lying there in that wooden box, that he would never again make tired smalltalk about budgets and subsidiaries and holidays that would never come felt like some kind of massive abstract joke.

The priest was saying something about dust, something about heaven, but there was no dust or heaven in this cramped cemetery. Louis chanced a glance up at the grey clouded sky, the London drizzle wetting down his blonde hair and black mourning suit, turning any dust that might have been poetically underfoot back to mud.

“Amen.” said the priest.

“Amen.” said the crowd.

“A-amen.” said Louis, quickly looking back down to earth and putting his top hat back on, sliding the riding strap under his chin.

“What was that?” Mother asked, looking at him sharply.

“Nothing, Mother.” Louis said quietly.

He ducked his head and stepping forward with the seven other pallbearers, some uncles, most colleagues from the bank, and helped heft the coffin up the steps, into the family crypt, and up onto its waiting shelf.

He hesitated as the others filed back out into the rain, leaving him nearly alone for a moment. The coffin wood gleamed as black as the hides of the drakes that had pulled its hearse, and it silently stared back at him from the white marble shelf. The crypt would be sealed again once he left. He might not be able to be this close to his father again until he or mother or Beth died.

But what did you say to someone you hadn’t really spoken to in years? To someone who was heaving a burden of a life onto your shoulders just by dropping dead of tuberculosis?

Maybe if Dad had died ten years earlier Louis would be able to weep, to throw himself on the coffin and cry about the adventures they hadn’t had yet, to mourn the loss of his greatest friend and inspiration and the chance they’d lost to live out their dream together.

But that had been before Father had become bank president, before the life and spark had been sucked out of him, leaving a tired worried shadow behind.

Louis glanced up again, seeing the dusty cobwebbed carvings of ivy and angels and wyverns in the heavy marble ceiling above him instead of the sky, feeling the weight of the earth under his feet holding him down.

It felt like he was the one about to be sealed up in marble.

He swallowed, ducking back out into the open air. He needed air, he needed sky, he needed to get to Arthur and-

“Mr. Ainsley?”

Louis grimaced as someone plucked at his elbow before he could disappear into the dispersing crowd. He turned, forcing a sober smile as he looked down at the small man who had a polite vise grip on his sleeve.

“Mr. Honeycutt,” Louis said, “w-what is it?”

“I’m terribly sorry to bring this up again, and at your poor father’s funeral, may he rest in peace, but my letters don’t seem to have been getting through?” Honeycutt said, balancing that careful expression that only occurs when two people know perfectly well that letters have been getting through, but being ignored, “But with you being instated as president of the bank next week we really must-”

“I, I, I, t-thought that wasn’t f-for another m-month?” Louis said, his mouth getting slow and dry as he tried to twist his sleeve away in the most polite manner possible, his ears getting hot over how much trouble he was having getting words out, “F-f-f-father said I didn’t h-h-”

“Well, that’s what most of my notes have been about, if you had been able to read them.” Honeycutt said, not putting emphasis on certain words, but Louis could tell he wanted to and could guess which ones, “Without a president the bank will be unable to move forward with certain important financial transactions that will need your signature. As your late father’s secretary and your new one I’ve already prepared the next month’s worth of work, picking up projects your father wasn’t able to finish, meetings that need to be had. Life goes on Mr. Ainsley, money never sleeps, and you’re needed to continue on your family’s work.”

NO.

“I’m a-a-afraid that I n-n-n-n-”

Louis clenched his fist in his pocket as he struggled maddeningly to get to the next syllable. He hadn’t been this slow in years, but he hadn’t had to talk to so many people about so many awful subjects in years either.

He could see Honeycutt’s patience visibly wearing thin as he continued to struggle through his sentence, making his stuttering even worse as embarrassment flushed through him.

“I m-m-m-mean-” Louis said, trying to start again.

“What he means is that he’ll be in contact with you soon,” Mother said, sweeping into the conversation and taking Louis’ arm with a sad smile at Mr. Honeycutt, “He’ll be sure to send you a message about meeting tomorrow, will that suffice?”

“Of course madam,” Mr. Honeycutt said, looking relieved as he bowed to them both, “and my deepest condolences about your husband, he was an excellent man and an excellent banker. Here, I’ve prepared a file of some of his most urgent papers for Mr. Ainsley to look over.”

“Thank you.” Mother said, taking the file and handing it to Louis before nodding soberly with a sweet sad smile and pulling Louis away into the crowd.

“Mother, t-that’s not what I w-was going to say.” Louis said quietly, his stutter starting to calm down now that it was just her, “I don’t want to-”

“Louis, your father has just died, how can you disrespect him and our family like this?” Mother said, looking up at him with sharp tired eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t-” Louis started, bowing his head.

“If you can’t manage to speak properly then keep quiet until you can.” she said, looking forward.

Louis said nothing, feeling his blush deepen. If he could have flown away at that moment he would have, but Arthur was off waiting back with the carriages and other dragons, leaving him trapped.

“I know your father’s death has been hard for you,” Mother said quietly as they walked, “but it’s been hard for all of us. You’ve always been so responsible, you can’t afford to let all your hard work slip away now, you’re twenty-two for heaven’s sake. First thing tomorrow you’re going to the bank and assume your role as president, is that clear?”

NO.

“Y-. Yes, Mother.” Louis said quietly, managing to get the words out despite the claustrophobic feeling descending on him. It felt like the ground was starting to pull at his feet, as if the earth wanted to root him to the spot and swallow him whole.

“Good.” Mother said, her voice softening a little as she looked at him, “If you need to spend the evening alone I understand, but I want you to be ready to start again first thing tomorrow morning, alright?”

That would mean going back to the house that was still dripping in death. All the clocks stopped, all the picture frames turned over, all the mirrors wrapped in black crepe. Just like Louis himself, covered in black mourning cloth that would be his only wardrobe for a year. At least he was more fortunate than Mother, who would be trapped in black crepe for two years instead of one.

Unable to escape, unable to think of anything else for over a year. And trapped in the bank besides, the exact opposite of the open skies and sweeping plains he’d been dreaming of ever since he was old enough for Father to read him books of the American West. Back when Arthur was only a fledgling, small enough to come inside and curl up on the bed beside them both.

I think Arthur wants to be a cowboy as much as you do Louis, look, he’s reading along too!

Louis could already feel the black cloth seeping into his skin, eating down into him where it could wrap up his heart and mind in tight, stifling cloth.

He couldn’t trust himself to get the words out so he only nodded, letting go of Mother’s arm and striding off on his own.

He nearly bit through his lip in relief when he finally spotted the dragon paddock. Enough wealthy members of the bank at the funeral that there was a small flock of English and Welsh Fieldrunners tethered down, all lazily curled up or stretching on the gravel. Louis easily spotted Arthur’s pearly white head among the soft purples and blues and browns and his pace increased to downright undignified as he sprinted across the wet grass.

Arthur spotted him, getting up and half raising his wings in anticipation as Louis jumped the low paddock fence and hugging his neck, barely able to get his arms around it anymore now that they were both full grown.

“Let’s leave, I can't stand another moment here.” Louis said, pulling himself up onto the damp saddle, a dangerously wobbly feeling rising up his chest as he pulled the saddle straps tight over his legs. He tucked the file Honeycutt had given him into one of the leather saddlebags, strapping it shut, “I need to fly.”

Arthur looked back at him, clearly able to tell something was wrong, but obliged, hopping lithely over the paddock fence to an open patch of soggy grass. He snapped his leathery wings open to full span and slammed them toward the ground as he leapt into the air, launching them up into the sky with another powerful stroke of his wings.

Louis leaned against Arthur’s neck as they climbed up and away from the cemetery, keeping them streamlined as they ascended, circling and hopping into updrafts as the people below them got smaller and smaller.

Louis took a long breath as they leveled out and he sat up, the tightness in his chest finally easing as the silence of the sky wrapped around them. Arthur looked back at him in concern as they started gliding back toward the city.

“I’m fine,” Louis said, wiping his eyes on his black sleeve, and patting Arthur’s shoulder, “I just...I don’t really want to go anywhere right now, I just want to fly if that’s alright.”

Arthur tossed his head in acknowledgement, tipping his wings ever so slightly to glide them down nearer the city, a concerned moaning rumble sounding in his chest.

“I just...I just can’t lock myself up in the bank,” Louis said, gripping the reigns against the saddle bar, “You saw what it did to Dad, it ate him alive, and now everyone wants me to do the same thing over again. I’ve been doing what everyone else wanted since University and I really think I’ll go mad if I have to a moment longer, I really do.”

He felt Arthur start to dive and pulled the reins to the right, ducking low. Arthur felt the tug and pulled his wings in for a moment as Louis leaned into their turn, swooping them down into a brief spin of a free fall that tucked them down around the side of a building before their wings opened again, catching the air current and sending them climbing up and above the rooftops of London again. A nearby flock of wyverns startled up into the air from a rooftop.

Louis smiled as he felt the easy rush of adrenaline and let the reigns go slack again. Some dragons had to be jerked and wrangled an entire flight, but Arthur was different. They’d flown together so much over their lives that the reigns were really just a legal formality at this point. They both knew what they liked, and they both liked to feel the air beneath them, to feel alive.

Or rather, as alive as they could feel without drawing unwanted attention from the bobbies.

Louis caught Arthur glancing over at the Clock Tower, the gigantic spire with Big Ben sitting at its top. The biggest, most tempting, and most thoroughly off limits no-fly zone in all of London.

“Not today, boy.” Louis said sympathetically, glancing over at it too.

Why they would build the perfect roost and then expect no one to land on it was beyond him, but the yellow stripes around the edges at the top were a clear warning to any riders that might think otherwise.

But then what was a city really but a collection of yellow stripes? Don’t land here. Don’t leave here. Don’t do this or that. Fly in a straight line and don’t make a fuss and whatever you do don’t do anything that makes you feel free.

“Let’s go to the docks.” Louis called, looking away.

Arthur swept his wings in acknowledgement, sending them cutting through the air above the noisey cluttered ground traffic below.

It had begun drizzling again as they reached the docks, making everything slick and Louis grateful for the roughened roof tiles on the perch overlooking the warf. Two Irish fieldrunners were tethered on the far side of the perch roof, eyeing them suspiciously, and a sailor sat on the edge between them, making his way through a meat pie.

The docks were a frenzy of activity below, dock workers and sailors rushing to and fro with drakes pulling wagons of cargo to be loaded onto the waiting ships floating in the Thames, ready to sail downriver to the ocean once they were loaded. Across the Thames Louis could see the massive scaffoldings where gigantic milewing dragons roosted between their transoceanic flights.

Louis unstrapped himself from the saddle and carefully slid down to sit on the roof, leaning against Arthur’s warm side as the dragon settled down beside him.

Louis’s father had used to bring him down here when they’d still had time.

That’s how we’ll get to America. We’ll take a boat and be out in the Wild West before you know it.

Why can’t we just fly there? Arthur’s getting super fast!

Well you can’t expect him to fly across a whole ocean can you? And he’ll be too big to ride on a milewing with us soon. Besides, you’ll love the ocean.

Louis realized he was crushing the cuff of his jacket in one hand and stopped, rubbing his eyes against the memories. He glanced over at the sailor across the roof.

“My good man, can you tell me why the docks are so busy today?” he called over.

The sailor wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve with a grin, “Leviathan season, sir!” he called back, “Migration starts any minute now, we’ve been gettin the girls hitched up and loaded all week.”

Louis sat up straight, looking down at the docks again with some of his old excitement coming back despite himself. He’d completely forgotten it was that season already.

Normally sea passage to America took months on a regular ship, putting it in danger of sea dragons and storms, and riding a Milewing across the ocean took a week for those willing to pay a heavy price and travel light.

But hitching a ride with a leviathan, great gentle sea serpents who migrated across the ocean twice a year, that was a trip that only took a blinding speed of three or four days. Harness gentling one was a dangerous and slow undertaking, but a crew that could boast a twice annual leviathan voyage across the Atlantic could command whatever price they liked for wealthy buyers looking to transport time sensitive cargo to the other side of the world.

“Aren’t you attached to one of the ships then?” Louis asked, looking over at the leisurely lunching man.

“Sure am. My girl’s Lil’ Mary, it’s her first season pulling a ship, helped harness her myself last night.” He said proudly, taking a swig from a flask, “but she’s a young’un, won’t set out till nightfall. ‘Sides, me poor bleedin back’s ready to split after loading all that cargo, needed to nip off for a minute.”

The man scratched at his beard, gazing over the bustle of the docks, then glanced over at them again, pausing as he took in Louis’s mourning clothes and Arthur. “You ever been to the continent sir? By the looks of those wings you seem the type that could’afford it, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“N-not yet.” Louis said, rubbing his ear as he looked out West, out past the distant horizon, “We’ve always wanted to though.”

The sailor shoved the last bite of pie into his mouth and wiped his hands on his coat, giving Louis another more appraising look.

“You know sir, Mary’s still got a bit o’ room on board if you’re looking to cross the pond tonight.” The sailor said, a gleam in his eye, “First time voyages are always the hardest to book so we still got a ticket or two left. You can see all the America you want by Tuesday, plus I get a nice bonus if I manage to sell the last tickets, could do us both a lot of good.”

“I...me?” Louis said, nearly falling off the roof at the sudden thought.

“Well sure, I weren’t talking to the Irish racers over there.” The sailor chuckled, “It’ll cost you a pretty penny, but I can promise you a leviathan voyage is something you’ve got to see at least once. And you’ll have to wait another year before the next season.”

Louis didn’t care about the cost, money was the one problem he didn’t have, his ancestors had seen to that. But the thought of boarding that ship...right now, going to America on a whim, escaping west...

Seeing the open country skies, getting some adventure, living the dream he’d always wanted.

The thought made him a little dizzy.

He jumped as Arthur nudged his arm, looking at him curiously, his wings shuffling slightly in excitement.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Louis whispered harshly to the dragon, “We have responsibilities, we can’t just run off into the sunset.”

Responsibilities like writing Honeycutt in the morning. Like going back to a house in mourning. Like locking himself into an office at the bank everyday, of surrounding himself with walls and ceilings, of handling money all day until it sapped his soul.

Of never doing what he really wanted.

Arthur shoved his nose under Louis’s arm, clicking his jaw in an unspoken remark that Louis understood perfectly.

You idiot, this is our chance.

“Who do I talk to about buying passage?” Louis asked the sailor, the words spilling out of him seemingly of their own accord.

“I can take you two right to the Captain,” the sailor said with a grin, “he’ll get you both sorted. We’re sailing out to open water to meet Mary in an hour though so we’ll have to be quick about it. We don’t think Mary’ll leave till after sundown but you can never be quite sure with leviathans, they come and go as they jolly well please.”

This was a terrible idea, certifiably mad, there was no way he could go through with something like this.

“Do we need to purchase provisions beforehand or can we come as we are?” Louis asked, already climbing into the saddle, Arthur was practically trembling in excitement under him.

“Leviathan passengers are all first class tickets, voyage of a lifetime and all that, though I expect you’ll want a change of clothes, what with you being the fancy type and all.” The sailor looked up at Louis, scratching his head, “Say, excuse me if I’m out of place, but could I trouble you for a lift? It’ll get us to the Captain double quick, and I’ve always wanted to try riding an English racer.”

Three days with one set of clothing would have to do, there wasn’t time to buy more and he might get caught if he tried to stop home. Besides, as a cowboy he’d be wearing the same clothes for weeks at a time, he might as well get used to it now.

“Of course, no trouble at all.” Louis said, smiling with growing excitement as he reached down to help the sailor (who smelled very strongly of lemons and cheese) up to sit behind him, “Where are we headed?”

“Warehouse down on the far end of the dock right oveeEEERRWHOAH!”

Louis grinned as Arthur leaped off the roof perch, eagerly slicing through the air toward the warehouse before the sailor had even finished his sentence.

“He’s bloody fast!” The sailor shouted in Louis’ ear with a cackle as the wind whipped past them.

“The fastest in England!” Louis shouted back, “And he’s going to be the fastest in America too!”

He could practically already taste the Wyoming air, the Utah dust, and feel the New Mexico heat on his skin.

It was all too easy to block out everything else as Arthur swept his wings back, landing primly in front of the warehouse. Louis leapt off as the sailor shakily slid off behind him.

“Now where’s this Captain of yours?” Louis said eagerly, “We need to buy two tickets immediately.”

----

Welcome to the first chapter of the Free Wing project!

I’m using this as a chance to sharpen my art skills and push my abilities, so be sure to check the [#free wing] tag on my blog to see what other art and worldbuilding like breed and species profiles that I’ve already made for this story and world.

Asks about the world and other details as always are accepted, I love hearing your thoughts and questions, especially since they have a way of helping the story grow! :)

- Wit

#dragon #dragons #dragon rider #cowboy #cowboys #free wing #louis #arthur #my ocs

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